


Cat's Cradle

by KaedeRavensdale



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Code: white, Code:Black: content, Deal with Death, Mpreg, Other, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-10-13 03:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10505325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: When Death appeared in his room at that damned orphanage he’d feared that he would die for sure, but instead the Reaper made a wager: if his ideals as Voldemort could withstand Death’s best efforts to destroy them for nine months, he would grant him true immortality as a reward. Confident he would not lose, Tom Riddle agreed. You shouldn’t play games with a force of nature.





	1. Chapter 1

The window had no blinds and gaped like a staring eye out at the blank expanse of brick just on the other side of the narrow alleyway. The wooden floors of the room were badly scuffed and covered in a layer of dust, the furniture blank and undisturbed over the course of the occupants long absence as if the place had been avoided by the buildings other inhabitants like it had housed a victim of the plague. The walls were the same dismal hue of not-quite-white that they had been for years and even through the darkness he could clearly see the myriad of stains marring the surface of the ceiling overhead.

Wool’s orphanage was not a pleasant place to be and one Tom Marvolo Riddle-Heir of Slytherin, soon to be Dark Lord of Britain and self-proclaimed second coming of Merlin-was anything but pleased to once more be consigned to his miniscule and grimy room. Small mercies that he’d come of age this coming New Years, and after the close of his final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would never have to so much as lay eyes upon the hellhole again.

Then again, maybe he would come back once he was fully immortal and had all his other affairs in order. If only to raze the place, along with all memories of his past.

Speaking of his immortality, Tom-oh how he looked forward to the day where he could shed that damned Muggle name like an old skin-was pleased with his current progress towards achieving absolute immunity to death. He already had one Horcrux-a fortuitous accident, were he to be truly honest, with the help of his 60-foot-long highly venomous inheritance-and had plans already formed for a number of others. Seven, to be precise. But these new vessels would be meaningful. Much more precious. As for his diary, it was currently as safe as he could currently make it-unable to use magic out of school at his current age-and at that moment was held tightly in the grip of…

Budding Dark Lords did not jump up out of bed, nor did they let out undignified or high pitched sounds of surprise, but he certainly felt that the sudden appearance of the black robed figure which had materialized at the foot of his bed permitted a bit of a minor slip; he was pressed into a corner in the blink of an eye, heart breaking itself to pieces against his ribs in a desperate bid to escape as his wide eyes remained anchored to the simple book which held his precious soul. His only current tie to unending life. Its covers were being gently caressed by the boney talons of what could only be none other than the Grim Reaper himself.

Was this how he was going to die, then? Surely not! He was too great for this! Too young! Still had too much left to do to make the world a better place for those with magic, those who were superior! It couldn’t be his time and surely that meant that this monster, this personification of his one true fear, couldn’t touch him.

“You would be correct in that assumption, young Tom Riddle, under normal circumstances.” It voice was like a blade of ice being run directly through his heart. “But these ceased to be normal circumstances the moment you created your first Horcrux. You have attempted to cheat me, and ancient laws allow me to do with cheaters as I see fit, be it their ‘time’ or not. I assure you, it isn’t a pleasant fate which waits for you.” The scythe was absent at the moment, but he had little doubt that would make much difference. “However, you present me with a…unique opportunity. I have made deals with others, so I will offer you one now: let us make a wager, young serpent.”

Wager? Terror slithered up his spine, thick coils dragging over raw nerves like the sleek form of one of his beloved snakes. Wagers and gambles and games; they all had rules, rules which led to punishments, and Death was well-fabled to be the epitome of cruel in every tale he’d ever read which mentioned it Muggle and Magical alike. Even a single toe being placed out of line would, he knew, be noticed and avenged.

“Wager? What sort?” his mouth was suddenly very dry and his heart seemed to have migrated into his throat. Tom’s back was still pressed tightly to the wall, shaking from a combination of fear and cold; much like a Dementor the Reaper radiated an gelid aura and, despite the summer heat outside, frost had marbled the glass window.

“A punishment game.”

 _Punishment…?_ Tom stared, dark eyes wide and disbelieving. Despite there being nothing but darkness beneath its cowl, he knew that Death was grinning.

“Interested?”

“If I were to tell you that I’m not?”

“You would suffer the cheater’s recompense. Even Hell could not dream up _that_ punishment, I assure you. Suffering beyond suffering, forever.”

“And if I agree? If I take your wager, play your game and win? What’s in it for me?”

“Immortality: not a desperate bid to escape me by shattering yourself and hiding the pieces but true immunity to my touch. But by the time I’m through, I doubt you’ll want it.”

True immortality? Death never able to touch him? Tom prided himself on his ability to control his every action and emotion but in a sudden rash of rather Gryffindorian impulse he nearly had to bite his own tongue off to prevent a hasty agreement that would all but surely land him in hot water.

“What’s the price?”

The laughter sounded like shattering bone. “The price? Oh, you truly are Salazar’s Heir, aren’t you? So suspicious.” Death cackled. “I will bring you low, Tom Riddle. All your fervor. All your pride. Everything you think you want and think you believe. Gone. You will know the suffering both of your parents were forced to endure to bring you into this world and you will understand what it truly means to sacrifice yourself in the name of love. I wager that what you shall endure will irrevocably change you, but if I am wrong and you are able to remain as you are-Lord Voldemort-when you are in my presence once more you may claim the offered immortality.”

“And if I do change?” Not that he would-the Reaper had sounded like Dumbledore for a moment there when it had brought up “love”-but best to know.

“Then you may request one other boon be granted in its place.”

He would not be swayed from his path. Not by anyone. Not by anything. And in all that he’d already gone through, nothing that the Reaper had up its black sleeve could ever hope to break him. Of that he was absolutely certain. “Very well, Death. I accept your wager and would be honored to play your ‘punishment game’.”

“I am pleased to know that you are pleased. You won’t stay that way for long.” That trickle of fear again. “We shall see each other again in just over nine months.”

An exact time frame? And why nine months? Nine wasn’t even a magical number! Why couldn’t it be seven? Questions raged in his mind like angered bees so much so that he almost didn’t notice the fact that Death had turned to leave before abruptly pausing.

“Oh, I almost forgot. You’ll need to undergo a few changes, first of which being a restoration of your soul.”

Sharp bone pierced leather before that last sentence could be registered and black ink hemorrhaged outwards like blood from a fatal wound. Pain, agony far worse than what he’d felt when he’d made the damn thing in the first place, ravaged his body lighting his nerves on fire and stealing his breath. The last thing he saw was the Reaper vanishing in a whirl of dark fabric before he crumpled to the floorboards and everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic noncon warning just be aware

The diary was on the floor beside his head when he regained consciousness, the slash marks in the surface standing as undeniable proof the events of the night prior had not been a dream. He had been visited by Death. Had made a wager. Had had his soul repaired.

A punishment game.

The Reaper had alluded to vague terms about his parents but just what did it truly amount to? He knew that his mother had died giving birth to him, but what had his slug of a father possibly sacrificed aside from a sliver of his reputation and even that had been unwillingly.

Spurred on by the thought of the filthy Muggle Tom sprang to his feet only to instantly regret it. Agony flared through him and he fell again with a hiss, knees thudding on the floor. Unconsciously his arms wound around his middle, clutching at his newly tender stomach.

It felt like he’d been stepped on by a dragon.

Confused and concerned he uncoiled himself from his curled position and lifted his shirt to reveal pale skin. Nothing. Tom didn’t know what would have been more distressing to him, the fact that nothing was there or what he might have done if something had been. There was no blood. No discoloration. He dropped the fabric again with a sigh and stood up, more carefully this time so as to keep the frissons of pain manageable, hobbling over towards the door of the room. He couldn’t stand up straight-it hurt too much to try-so Tom remained in his half-bent position and proceeded down the hall towards the staircase.

It was still early in the morning, so much so that only the faintest line of grey was visible on the horizon, and only a few of the other residents of Wool were up yet-even had it been later none of the worthless Muggles would have dared mention anything about it-and exited the building. Quickly leaving the grounds through the heavy wrought iron gate.

He needed to just…walk. To walk and clear his head. To think. Every Slytherin knew the importance of foreplaning and understanding your enemy. He needed to work out precisely what the Reaper intended to do to him over the course of the next circa nine months, and then quickly determine the best way to counter those plans. He felt confident in his ability to weather any storm that his challenger would throw at him, but caution paid. Even for Lord Voldemort.

The portion of the city which he’d wandered into while distracted was shadowed and deserted. Dirty and almost entirely industrial. What time was it?

Tom was just about to cast a wandless Tempus Charm when he found himself grabbed from behind by a pair of burly hairy arms. A hand-massive, calloused and dirty-clamped itself over his mouth before he could even fill his lungs to protest as his attacker commenced dragging him towards the nearest alley.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you? Look a bit hurt, though. You lost, little boy?” the man’s breath was hot and smelled like sour milk. “Don’t squirm so much; no need to worry. I’ll take good care of you.”

He was not about to allow himself to ever be made a victim of by a Muggle again. Not like the older children at the Orphanage had done back before he’d known the truth he was a Wizard, most certainly not in the manner this particular lowlife seemed to have in mind. He’d never cast an Unforgivable wandlessly before, but a Stinging Hex he had and was quite accomplished at after so many occasions of having had to discipline his Knights. He’d force the man to release him and would pull his wand, Trace be damned. With the face and (public) record of an angel not to mention the network of connections he’d spent so long building he’d get away with it. Easily. He reached for his magic, expecting it to jump like an eager dog at his command.

Malice was replaced with icy fear when nothing happened. His core withdrew, refusing to respond. This had _never_ happened before.

_Death! That bastard!_

He’d have to resort to Muggle methods, then, never mind the fact the man had to be at least twice his size. How plebian. How disgusting. He’d have to wash his mouth out after this. Maybe even get a shot or twelve at the nearest hospital to prevent contracting anything, but there wasn’t any other choice.

Tom’s perfect white teeth sank so deeply into his captor’s finger that he nearly bit it clean off.

The man cursed and yanked his hand away but before he could even think to call of help or formulate any other reaction a fist slammed into his jaw. His head spun on his shoulders and stars exploded in front of his eyes, body going limp with shock. His attacker used the provided chance to drag him the rest of the way into the alley and out of sight of the street where he threw him to the ground.

The temporary seal that the Reaper had put on his magic didn’t extend to his Occlumancy, and he made use of that fact to retreat into his head until it was over. Saving himself from at least a portion of the trauma, but no longer putting up a fight as consequence. Just lying there until the animal was finished and left.

Killing and torture were methods of gaining control which he’d always put stock in but now that he’d been on the receiving end of an entirely different manner of assault he could no longer deny it was affective. Not that he would _ever_ stoop to a level so despicable as that, and if he found out that one of his followers were ever to engage in such behavior…

He refused to allow what he’d endured to leave him terrorized, would not be made to cower inside because of it, especially not from the Muggles to which he was so superior. But he couldn’t deny that he felt shaken up by what he’d gone through. And that he certainly felt violated.

Violated. Just like his father must have felt after he’d recovered from the influence of the Amortentia that his mother had had him under. He could almost sympathize with the dog in that regard. Almost. That fact alone was enough to wrench a bitter laugh out of him as he put his clothing back to rights and left the alley, the return of his magic’s familiar course and smolder doing nothing at all to make him feel even the slightest bit better.

It was almost enough to make him slightly more forgiving of the man who had abandoned him, but not quite. He could understand the feelings of violation. Of hatred. But not the cowardice. The running. Had he been in his father’s place he’d have made sure the little bastard that he’d sired under duress would have never drawn a breath.

Of course then that would have meant he wouldn’t be alive at the current moment, wouldn’t be in the position that he was now to make the world a better place for its rightful rulers, and Tom couldn’t have that. In a very morbid way, he was grateful for his father’s lack of spine. And for the fact that he hadn’t inherited it along with his father’s face and name.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about landing in a similar position, stuck with a…by Morgana, no. No. Surely not!

The nine month time frame. The new tenderness in his stomach as if he’d been wounded, or something foreign had been introduced which hadn’t been there before. Like what Skelegro might have felt like if it regrew organs instead of bones.

Was it possible for a magical male to bear a child? He supposed it would make sense. Would explain why relationships, even marriages, of the same sex were so much more accepted in the magical world than in the muggle one. Tom cursed himself for not realizing…but no, he couldn’t jump to conclusions yet. He needed to gather more information before he panicked; information on if it was possible and information on how to get rid of it in the event of the unthinkable becoming reality. He needed to go to Diagon Alley.

But first he needed to clean up. To wash away the filth. To get rid of the humiliation he’d been put through and begin the process of forgetting that it had ever happened as soon as possible. He wouldn’t let this break him. Nothing would sway him from the path that he’d chosen. From his destiny. Not the Grim bloody Reaper. Not Albus Dumbledore. Not God himself, or Jesus Christ, or the Devil or an assault from a muggle and certainly not the potential that an unwanted parasite had taken root inside him.

Regardless of what was thrown at him he would not break. He. Would. Not. Lose. He would be immortal. He would best Death himself and have the entire world at his feet even if it meant burning it all to the ground.

Wools was awake now and under normal circumstances the matron would have gone after him for leaving the grounds without warning or permission, if only to keep up the illusion that she had any power over him, but his ruffled state was so unusual that it alone seemed to leave her struck speechless. He swept passed her and up towards his room.

It was passed midday by the time he got around to Diagon Alley, freshly dressed and still feeling filthy despite having rubbed his skin red raw. He wasn’t there long, purchasing only a single book from Flourish and Blott’s before returning and locking himself in his room. He didn’t read it cover to cover, unlike every other book that he’d ever gotten his hands on, only the necessary parts. Once finished, he threw it into his trunk in disgust.

His worst fears had been confirmed. Yes, it was possible-if rare-for a Wizard to bear a child though usually only Purebloods could be born with the trait, and to make matters worse there was no way to kill the bastard before it was born without taking his own life too. He wasn’t quite that spiteful. Abortion spells did exist but they were viewed almost as despicable as the Unforgivables-though not near as dark-due to the fact that the magical population was so low, and all books on them were in the custody of St. Mungo’s for use in only the most dire circumstances.

He’d have to wait until the infernal thing was born to deal with it.

His most pressing concern now was concealing his unwanted pregnancy-and he had no doubt that he was, now, as the ensuing events could only be the damned Reaper’s doing as a part of their wager-from his Knights, not to mention the rest of the Hogwarts staff and most especially his meddling Transfiguration Professor. No one could ever know that he was now with child, or questions would be raised when he could no longer produce one after he’d inevitably slaughtered the creature.

It was a blessing that he’d proven to be gifted in Glamours some time ago.


	3. Chapter 3

Summer had not been pleasant, even more so than usual. It had started with fatigue and increased heart rate, frequent trips to the bathroom, minor weight gain and vomiting which only worsened into August. Thankfully that had begun to lessen now that it had turned to September, only to be replaced by shortness of breath and random nosebleeds. Not to mention his newly sensitive sense of smell and the cravings which, at least, would be easier to satisfy now that he was returning to Hogwarts; the bloody things had driven him to distraction at the orphanage.

At least the emerald-lined Slytherin robes would pay their dues by assuring anyone who saw him that the reason he had one hand firmly planted over his mouth and nose was because of the mudblood students on the platform. He dragged his trunk up onto the train and down through the corridor to an empty compartment, trusting his Knights would find him on their own.

He didn’t have to wait for long. The door slid open allowing Avery, Lestrange, Mulciber, and Nott to pile into the compartment. Abraxas followed with considerably more grace, his blonde hair tied back with a ribbon of emerald satin.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Prefect’s car, Tom? You are Headboy.”

“They’ll manage on their own this once.”

“Any plans for the coming year, Riddle?”

“Mulciber, that’s not to type of thing to be discussing on the train!”

“Well, I figured-.”

“Save it for the first meeting; he’ll hex you otherwise.” Much to Tom’s displeasure Avery dropped into the seat beside him. He pressed the hand over his mouth and nose tighter and scooted away. “Something wrong?”

“Switch with Abraxas.”

“What? Why?”

“You stink!”

Mulciber and Nott erupted into laughter at Avery’s rather affronted expression as he obediently switched with the Malfoy heir.

“What happened, Riddle?” Lestrange asked after reassuring the other boy that he smelled fine. “Come into a creature inheritance over the summer or something?”

“That’s none of your concern. The whole bloody lot of you will do well to mind your own business!” Heightened annoyance was inconvenient but still something he could deal with. When the moodiness actually transformed into the full blown swings which pregnancies were so notorious for…he could only hope that his usual emotional control held through and kept him from doing anything embarrassing like suddenly breaking down into tears. “My personal affairs are of no consequence, and if anything had occurred over the summer which pertained to any of you I’d have made mention of it. Understood?”

“Yes, Riddle.”

“Of course.”

“We didn’t mean to…you know.”

If simple Stinging Hexes had them this scared Tom was eager to know what the Cruciatus Curse would do. Of course, he’d have to wait until after Hogwarts for that.

The others had fallen into conversation while his attention was elsewhere.

“You look better, if I can say so without you taking offense.” Abraxas said softly. “You’ve gained weight, aren’t as thin. I guess the rationing is over?”

“Yes, it is.” But that wasn’t why. He’d only just begun to show, though not enough for his condition to be recognizable as what it was by sight alone. Still, he’d have to apply the glamors he’d spent all summer setting up soon. “But the end of the war didn’t make my summer any more enjoyable. I’ve been…ill.”

“With what?”

“A Muggle illness.” He replied. “Nothing truly serious, and nothing contagious. Though it will last a few months more. Unfortunate, but hardly a setback to our plans. Our work will still go forward.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Silence fell between them. Tom pulled a book from his trunk and settled in for the remainder of the ride. The others didn’t speak again until after the Trolley had gone by; looking up from the page he was on to find the others staring at him in confused surprise, he raised an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

“That’s…you do realize that you’re eating a Cauldron Cake?”

“…Yes.”

“Don’t you…hate those, Riddle?” Mulciber ventured delicately.

“…” Blast! He hadn’t considered his normal habits when ordering from the trolley as he honestly hadn’t expected the others to notice. As calmly as he could, tom returned his attention to his book and simply said “tastes change.”

“You’re a strange one, Riddle. I’ll give you that.” Avery said gruffly.

Abraxas was observing him much more closely now, well-hidden concern on his porcelain face. They couldn’t reach the castle soon enough. Once the train arrived, they joined the rest of the student body heading towards the carriages. They claimed one and it began to move.

A cold wind clattered through the trees around them; when Tom wrapped his arms around himself to fend off the chill they were much further down then he would have liked. Instinct protecting the thing which rationality had every intention of getting rid of as soon as it was born. The damned blonde was still watching him, but a single scorching glare was all it took to keep him silent.

He made a point of ignoring the ridiculous neon-clad figure of the deputy Head Master and took his seat at the Slytherin table. Paying no mind to the song that the tattered hat broke into or the speech that Dippet gave and clapped only when those around him did. When the food appeared the intermingled smells of all the different foods sent a wave of nausea crashing over him, very nearly causing him to vomit over the side of the bench in the middle of the Great Hall.

He wasn’t going to end up eating much, but from the look of how things were going he’d have a good idea of just how long he could hold his breath by the end of the night. Steak and kidney pie with cranberry sauce sounded incredibly appealing but he’d have to wait until he was on his perfect rounds and able to slip away into the privacy of the kitchens to satisfy that craving.

Tom frowned at his normal favored foods and forced himself to choke down a few bites of them to prevent attracting any more undue attention, especially considering that Dumbledore had resumed his usual staring.

“They get smaller every year, don’t they?”

Tom blinked blankly at the Slytherin who had spoken to him and whose name he couldn’t remember. “I’m sorry?”

“The first years.” He clarified. “They’ve shrunk. Again.”

He doubted that. Not that he really cared. Once the feast ended he quickly rose from his seat to attend to his duties as Head Boy by instructing the Prefects and helping the first years find their way down into the dungeon. It was with great relief that he retired to the seventh year dormitories and drew the curtains around his bed.

 **“ _Master, you have returned.”_** The long emerald body of his familiar slid into his four poster, her amber eyes glinting in the dim light.

“ ** _Hello, Nagini. How was your summer?”_**

**_“Quiet. I did a great deal of hunting. Now was your time at the muggles communal nest?”_ **

“ ** _Not well._** ” He stroked her glossy scales as she pressed her head into his hand. “ ** _Something terrible happened and the consequence will be…rather far reaching. But it isn’t going to change anything.”_**

Her black forked tongue flicked against his wrist. “ ** _You smell like hatchlings, Master. Are you going to lay eggs?”_**

 ** _“Humans don’t lay eggs, Nagini._** ” Tom gritted out, stiffening. “ ** _But essentially yes. I am going to have…a child. But it won’t change things. I’m going to get rid of it as soon as-ouch!”_** He yanked his hand back, bleeding from a cut on the side of his thumb. “ ** _What the bloody hell did you bite me for?”_**

**_“For what you were about to say! For what you seem to truly be thinking of doing!”_ **

**_“Don’t snakes eat their young?”_ **

**_“Not my kind!”_ **

**_“You don’t understand human society or how it works!”_** Tom snapped. “ ** _I didn’t ask for this, Nagini!”_**

**_“An unwanted mating is no excuse to break your own eggs! It is not the hatchling’s fault, Master!”_ **

**_“Whose fault it is doesn’t matter! It’s unwanted and a hindrance! If nothing else, it’s in the way!”_ **

**_“You’re right, Tom.”_** He’d never heard her use such an icy tone before. “ ** _I don’t understand how human society works.”_**

Nagini’s heavy coils hit the floor with a dull thud and her scales scrapped softly against the ground. Instead of going after her, confident that his familiar would eventually return and assured that his position was correct, he extinguished his wand and settled down beneath the sheets.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The lessening nausea had lulled him into a false sense of security which led him to attempt to eat something that morning, a move which he sorely regretted for the rest of the day. He excused himself early from Charms, escaped the notice of his Arithmancy professor while sneaking out, successfully kept a handle on himself through Ancient Runes and simply didn’t bother going to Transfiguration but should have known that Dumbledore wouldn’t take his absence lying down.

If it were possible for someone to die of embarrassment-not that Death would let him off that easy-he probably would have simply dropped dead the moment he realized his latest session of sticking his head down the toilet was being observed by his least favorite professor.

“Normally I would revoke points for your missing my class Tom, but given the situation I think I would be better served asking if you’re alright.”

Stifling a groan, Tom pulled away from the toilet as much as he dared and aimed a bleary glare at the man. “I’m fine, Sir.” He pressed his cheek against cool porcelain, dark hair plastered to his forehead.

“If I might take the liberty, you do not look alright.”

 _No, you may NOT take the liberty!_ All that he could do was shift weakly. “Simply an unfortunate matter of my breakfast not agreeing with me.” He said. “Why do you care, Sir? I think the entire school is aware by now that you and I don’t get along.”

The infamous twinkle in those damned blue eyes was there again. In a flare of spitefulness Tom easily convinced himself that it was responsible for the renewed round of vomiting. His streaming eyes made his vision go cross.

“You are a student, Tom, just like any other and deserve the same concern. Whatever you’ve done and whatever you might do in the future I do not wish to see you suffer.”

 _LIAR!_ He didn’t bother wasting the strength that was required to snap it at him.

“If you can stand, Tom, I’ll escort you to the Hospital Wing.”

“I don’t need a Healer.”

“I would have to disagree, Tom. My view of color is no longer what it used to be, but even I can tell you’re nearly as green as your familiar.”

Nagini. She still hadn’t come back. Probably for the best if her reaction to his plans was that strong.

“At least allow Madam Finch to give you a stomach soother, if nothing else. Given your nature, I doubt you’d want to risk your position at the top of the school at the hands of a…unfortunate illness.”

As long as he could keep the potentially revelatory diagnostic spells at bay perhaps a trip to the Hospital Wing would be of help, at least so far as to get the nosy old man to stop watching him hurl into the loo. Tom nearly collapsed when he pushed himself upright, but managed-just barely-to keep his feet. He swayed dangerously, swallowed down another wave of acidic bile, and teetered after the glittering man.

His hope that Dumbledore would bugger off back to his song bird and Muggle candies once he arrived in the Hospital Wing was foolish at best and soundly dashed the moment that the blindingly robed man headed for the Healer. Tom simply took the matter with a feeling of mild relief: at least he wouldn’t have to explain the matter.

Madam Finch bustled over to the cot he’d practically collapsed onto with her wand at the ready but a fiery glare and a hiss which would have put his great Basilisk to shame was enough to limit her to the potion he’d conceded to.

Making a mental note to get a personal supply of the same potion from Slughorn at the soonest convenience, Tom curled up and quickly fell asleep, his body wracked by exhaustion. There was no way that he’d be able to make it through his Prefect rounds without something of a nap.

Night had fallen outside the windows of the Hospital Wing by the time he was shaken awake.

“You’ve missed dinner, Mr. Riddle.” Good. Now he had an excuse to slip into the kitchens even sooner, though he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to tempt fate by eating quite so soon. “You’re certain that you don’t want me to cast a diagnostic spell on you?”

“That isn’t necessary,” he assured with a flash of his usual charming smile. “I’m aware of what I have; it’s a Muggle illness. I’ve received treatment for it already and have been instructed to simply let it run its course. Thank you for your assistance, but I’m fine now and have my rounds soon…”

“Very well, Mr. Riddle. You may go now.”

“Thank you, Madam finch,” Tom rose from the cot as quickly as he dared, relieved that the nausea had left at last, and left the Hospital Wing. With a quick glance at a summoned clock he headed down to the Hufflepuff sector of the dungeons and tickled the pear, slipping through the hidden door that it revealed.

The House Elves didn’t bat an eye at his request, a fact for which he was thankful. Unfortunately, naturally, his luck refused to hold out.

Abraxas stopped in his tracks and sent him a rather odd look. “Riddle.”

“Malfoy.”

“Are those…chocolate covered pickles?”

“… …”

“That’s a really common…Tom, are you pregnant?”

“Of course not! I’m a Half-blood, you know that isn’t possible!”

“The symptoms seem to say otherwise. Weight gain, your haywire sense of smell, the vomiting, and now cravings.” He pulled out a chair and sat down across from him at the table. “What happened?”

“Unforeseen circumstances that do not concern you.” Tom growled, fingers clenching white knuckled around his plate. “It won’t get in the way; Lord Voldemort has no use for a child, certainly not some unwanted brat, and I’m going to get rid of it the moment that it’s born so you’re not going to breathe a word about it am I understood?”

“You’re understood.” He said. “You’ll need someone to help, won’t you?”

“I’ve taken care of myself my whole bloody life! Why would I need help now?”

“Deflecting the others? Deflecting Dumbledore? Fetching things for you when your ankles get so swollen you can’t walk anymore?”

His ankles were going to swell up? “Your seeking to get in further good standing is admirable, but I’ll manage.”

“Have you been to St. Mungo’s yet?”

“There’s no point.”

“There’s plenty of point and you don’t need to worry it’ll get out; the Healers are sworn to secrecy, after all, unless your condition puts your life in danger.”

“Why would I waste the time concerning myself with the health of the creature? I’m not even going to name it, Abraxas.” Tom pushed his empty plate away. “If I can manage to get down into the Chamber again without Dumbledore noticing I may feed it to the Basilisk; I’m sure that she’d appreciate the snack.”

He grimaced but said nothing. “Even if you’re not going to keep the child you should at least worry about your own health. Magical pregnancies aren’t like Muggle ones. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“I already told you that I’d handle it.” Tom pushed his chair back sharply and rose from the table. “I have rounds.”

Before the Malfoy Heir could say another word, he swept from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn’t believe it. He’d already had to deal with vomiting, raised heart rate, trouble breathing, severe nosebleeds without warning which had led to postponing further meetings of his Knights indefinitely as Dolohov was apparently mortally terrified of ending up covered in blood, dizzy spells which had led him to having trouble on Prefect rounds, minor sensitivity in his chest and odd bouts of butterflies similar to what one would experience on one of those Muggle rollers coasters. And now, halfway through October and just over two months away from being a legal adult he had to deal with accidental magic. Again.

Hissing furiously Tom banished his unsalvageable Potions essay along with the shards of glass and stiffened away the ink that had splattered across his face and sheets before struggling to his feet-his normal grace had begun to suffer, as where the glamor hid his growing stomach it didn’t stop it from getting in the way-and traipsed out of the dorm room looking for. Abraxas.

The blonde was curled up by the fire with a book but looked up at him when he appeared. A jerk of the chin was all it took to get him to follow him back into the privacy of the empty dorm.

“Tom?”

“I’ve considered our last conversation on the matter at length and decided that, for the sake of knowing what I have to expect from this entire bloody process if absolutely nothing else, I will be taking your advice and paying a visit to St. Mungo’s.”

 “Well, that’s one step in the right direction.”

“My choice hasn’t been affected.”

“There’s so few of us, Tom-.”

“I will not raise a half-blood bastard!” He snapped. “Enough of that. I need your assistance in order to get out of the school without Dumbledore noticing. You’ll be visiting your family this weekend and I will be going with you.”

“I was planning on going home anyway. My parents won’t question it, especially given you’re involved.” He said. “It’s been arranged that I’ll be returning through Professor Slughorn’s floo at around seven in the morning. I can expect you then?”

“You can.”

Tom was true to his word and accompanied the blonde to the office of their Head of House. After a short but highly annoying conversation with the man the pair stepped into the floo and emerged in the foyer of Malfor manor, barely making it over the rim of the hearth before his mother Lyra attacked the blonde with a crushing hug.

“Abraxas Malfoy, you have been neglecting your letters!”

“Sorry, Mother. It’s been busy.” He said, motioning to Tom once she’d released him. “You remember Tom, don’t you?”

“Mr. Riddle, of course I do. Hard to forget Salazar’s Heir, especially when he is such a prodigy.” She smiled at him. “You have been well?”

Aware that he was pale and had dark circles under his eyes he flashed a small smile and bowed his head. “Regrettably, Lady Malfoy, I have been better. I fell ill over the summer; your son has convinced me at length to visit St. Mungo’s.”

“A terrible thing to her; I hope that it is not serious.”

“Thank you, Lady Malfoy.”

“Of course.” She returned her attention to her son. “You know where the entrance is, yes? You don’t need someone to go with you?”

“No, mother, we’ll be able to find it.” He assured her, then looked to Tom. “Shall we?”

He nodded and followed Abraxas out of manor and across the grounds. “I never had much interest in St. Mungo’s and thus never looked into it; is it like Diagon Alley where there’s only one place you can apparate to or-.”

“We’re not apparating. It’s unsafe for the baby.”

“I don’t-!”

“You could end up changing your mind, Tom. You still have four months left to go.”

“Don’t remind me!” He whirled around when the giant purple bus appeared with a loud crack. “The Knight Bus, Abraxas? _That_ is what you call safer?”

“Quite.” Abraxas smirked at him and headed up the bus’ stairs. Tom followed, fending off the vicious urge to grab the blonde by the ponytail and tug. “Just make sure to hold on and duck when things start flying around.”

“I’ve ridden this bloody thing before, Malfoy!”

Abraxas’ reply was cut off by another loud crack; their backs hit the window and began to slid rapidly towards the back of the bus. Tom grabbed one of the poles holding up the ceiling and clung on for dear life. Abraxas wasn’t so lucky and went sliding away. A wild country back road which was nowhere near Malfoy Manor sped by outside the windows at sickening speeds. The driver spun and wove from side to side in his chair, tugging on the wheel with mad abandon. Jumping the pavement. Mowing down small plants. Trees and the occasional street lamp throwing themselves out of the way.

_Crack!_

Empty countryside.

_Crack!_

The narrow streets of an otherwise quiet village.

_Crack!_

London.

The driver slammed on the brakes, the chairs skidding back towards the front of the bus. Tom lost his grip on the pole and Abraxas’ chair tipped forwards and both wound up on the floor in a heap.

“Purge and Dowes, Ltd. Entrance to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.”

Neither of them could get off of the bus soon enough.

“I swear on the name of my great ancestor that my first act as rule of Magical Britain will be to outlaw that _thing_!” He huffed, smoothing down his robes. “The idea they proposed with a basket under a Thestral was a much better idea than being tossed around like a bloody rag doll!”

“I’ve never met anyone who enjoys riding it. Well, maybe the driver and the bus boy.”

“Barmy, both of them.”

The reception area was, thankfully, not particularly busy so early in the morning; the only others in the room was a twenty something wizard who couldn’t make his feet stop tap dancing and a witch who had antlers growing out of her ears and sprouting roses from their tips.

“How may I help you?” asked a rather mousy man in a pair of lime green robes; whoever decided that Healers should take a cue from Albus Dumbledore’s sense of fashion needed to be forcibly admitted to the Janus Thickey ward post haste.

“We’re here regarding my friend’s condition,” Abraxas once again ignored Tom’s glare, “he’s been a bit stubborn about things, but I’ve finally convinced him to pay a visit to the maternity ward.”

“Yes, of course. Right down that hallway there. Third door on the left. Healer Sael will be with the two of you in a moment.”

The room which they had been directed to was small and cozy, at least as far as a hospital room went with pale green walls and brown furnishings. A glowing orb of light hovered on the ceiling.

He’d never actually been to a magical hospital before, only a Muggle one. And only the one time he’d gotten so sick that he’d have died otherwise, not that that had made the matrons any less bitter about it.

Healer Sael arrived a few moments later; a small aged witch with a halo or iron grey curls and smile lined eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Riddle is it?”

He nodded stiffly. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Healer Sael and I’ll be taking care of you today. This is your first time coming to St. Mungo’s, as I understand?”

“It is.”

“Well, there’s no need for you to worry. St. Mungo’s is acclaimed across Europe for its care and where your condition is rare you can rest assured that you’re in good hands.” She smiled at him, then looked over at Abraxas. “You’re the father?”

The blonde turned bright red. “I-? Oh, no! No! He’s…”

“Not of any consequence.” His voice was cold glass. “Abraxas is…my schoolmate.”

“Really, Riddle, you can’t even call me a friend?” he sneered. “Fine, fine, classmate it is then. Merlin.”

“Well, if you’re not the father I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step out into the hallway. Patient privacy, I’m afraid.”

“Of course.” Abraxas exited the room.

“You’re quite the curious case, Mr. Riddle. Your school records claim that you’re a Half-blood.”

“I’ve always been rather…special.”

“How long ago was it that you realized you’d conceived?”

“Mid-June.”

“So you’re about five months along?”

“Something like that.”

“You should really have come earlier, Mr. Riddle. Ensuring that your baby will be born healthy requires more than simply avoiding things like alcohol and caffeine, especially when it’s your first time.”

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

“Symptoms?”

“Nausea, heightened heart rate, shortness of breath, heartburn, nose bleeds, dizzy spells, an odd squirming sensation in my stomach from time to time and, most recently, uncontrollable spikes of magic.”

“It would seem that you’re in for a hard time with this little one, Mr. Riddle.” She said. “The ‘squirming feeling’ you described is the baby shifting. They’re not big enough to kick you properly yet; I suggest you enjoy that fact while it lasts.”

How much worse was this going to get? “I’ll do that, Healer Sael.” He said. “Anything else, or can I go?”

“No need to be so eager to leave, Mr. Riddle. I still need to examine you.” She said. “Remove your outer robes and shirt and lay back on the table, if you would please.”

Resigned, Tom did as he was told and left his robes folded in one of the chairs. The leather table was cold against the bare skin on his back. He stared at the ceiling of the room as the Healer went about examining what she felt she needed to and jerked violently in surprise when a soft thudding sound filled the room.

“W-What is that?”

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat, dear.”

“Heartbeat?” Supported on his elbows, Tom stared at the steadily growing bulge. The baby’s heartbeat. A heartbeat separate from his own. A life separate from his own. “I…it’s healthy?”

“He’s healthy, yes.” The Healer corrected gently. “You’re far enough along now that his gender is discernable.”

“He?” His eyes had started to burn, tears overflowing and spilling down his cheeks as his already wildly unhinged emotions broke from his tenuous control. Years he’d spent wanting for a family; wishing to be adopted; praying his father would appear and rescue him; dreaming of what life might have been had his mother survived. His mother died to save him. His father died by his own hand. He had a son.

A child. _His_ child.

What had he been thinking? How could he have ever considered murdering his own child no matter what had happened to result in him.

“Mr. Riddle?” He jumped, blinking the wash of tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you’d like to see him?”

“Yes! I…please.” Had Abraxas still been in the room he might have been embarrassed by the swiftness of his answer.

Healer Sael waved her wand with an indulgent smile. Tom was too busy staring at his baby to notice. He was tiny, around the size of his hand, and hadn’t yet fully developed into something entirely recognizable as human but he was still perfect in his eyes.

“I will warn you, Mr. Riddle, that you need to stop with the glamors you’ve been using and deliver the note I’ll be sending you back with to your Head Master. Your son is relying on your magical core to build his own, which is what’s at fault for the flares of magic you’ve described. You’re to be limited to theoretical courses and special Potion’s classes to keep you away from mixtures which release fumes or require ingredients which could harm him.”

“I understand.” He replaced his clothing and scrubbed at his still watering eyes. “Thank you, Healer Sael.”

“Of course, Mr. Riddle. The note will be waiting for you at the front desk. I’ll leave you and your friend to find your way out.”

Abraxas returned to the room a few moments after the Healer had left and raised a frosted eyebrow at finding him red around the eyes and curled protectively around himself.

“Merlin, I didn’t expect to find you looking like this.”

“You planned this, you bloody bastard!”

“I just wanted to make sure you had your head in the right place before you went through with your ‘feed the brat to the Basilisk’ plan.” Tom curled tighter around himself. “So you’re going to keep it now.”

“Him! And yes.”

“Perfect. Shall we head to Diagon then?”

“Why would we be going to Diagon Alley now?”

“Supplies, of course.”

“Morgana, Abraxas! As embarrassing as it is to admit it you know I don’t have the money for that!”

“I never said that you’d be paying.”

“Wha-?” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, are you expecting to get out of this?”

“Nothing much,” he grinned widely. “I just want to be named Godfather is all. Surely that’s not too much to ask?”

“Fine.” Tom huffed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Better you than any of the others.”


	6. Chapter 6

To Tom’s great relief, they walked to the Leaky Cauldron from the hidden entrance of St. Mungo’s. The owner-also named Tom-greeted them warmly as they passed through the sparsely filled room and exited out into the courtyard beyond. Diagon Alley, despite the early hour, was still bustling though not crowded.

“We’ll probably have to hide everything in the Room of Requirment; it may be best for you to give birth in there too, since I’d imagine you’re going to completely disregard the Healer’s advice because you don’t want Dumbledore aware of your son.”

“Of course not! I don’t want my son-my Heir-to grow up a twinkling highlighter!” He snapped. “Everything at Hogwarts is simple for me so I’m not at risk of straining my magic even with the glamors.”

“What about the Potion’s problem.”

“I’ll be careful; will read up on what’s dangerous. Come to think of it I’ll have to finish reading the portions of the book I bought over the summer that I ignored before now.” He said. “Do you know what we’ll need?”

Abraxas stared at him. “Didn’t you grow up in an orphanage? Surrounded by children?”

“I didn’t exactly pay attention to the _Muggles_! And I don’t like children!” One hand drifted to his stomach of its own accord. “But it’s different when it’s yours. Once you come to terms with…certain facts.”

“You mean like the fact that you’re giving birth to a child, not a problem?” the smirking blonde considered his silence a victory. “We’ll need to get a crib, the assorted materials that come with it, some toys and some books at the very least. Sure, the room will be able to provide a lot of it but it’d be more practical to sneak him into the Slytherin dorms. He’ll be well protected as the Prince of the Knights of Walpurgis and even if Professor Slughorn were to find out it’d be simple to convince him to keep it quiet.”

“What about formula? I doubt that the Hogwarts kitchens carry it.”

“You’ll probably want to feed him the natural way; it’s less painful.”

“Natural?”

“Yeah. You know.” He motioned to his chest. Tom just gave him a blank look. “How much do you know about your condition?”

“That it’s possible for wizards to become pregnant, usually only Purebloods, and that’s about it. Forgive me for hardly being concerned with any of the rest of it prior to now.”

Abraxas had the nerve to let out a long suffering sigh. “You’ve noticed you’re more sensitive by now, right? That’s because you’re able to produce milk for the baby; before you panic, you’re not going to get a women’s breasts, as sexy as you might have looked with them-.”

“Malfoy, I will Hex your entire bloody line!”

“But they will swell up a little bit and it’s less painful to nurse than to just let them dry up.”

“Is there something about you that I should know?”

“My cousin went through this a couple years ago. It wasn’t me.”

“Sure it wasn’t. That sounds like a convenient excuse.”

“I see that the water works left you in a good mood.”

“Shove it!”

“Seems I spoke too soon.” They walked through the doors of Witchlets and Wizardlings, a store which he’d never heard of and hadn’t ever been aware was there. Surrounded by bassinets, cribs and other baby paraphernalia the future Dark Lord felt markedly out of place. “Alright, I’m guessing it’s a Slytherin theme for the new Heir of Slytherin?”

“Green and silver, yes? Other colors, like black or dark brown, are acceptable as well.” Standing tall while he still could, Tom swept ahead of Abraxas to critically examine a sleek wooden crib with carved green and silver serpents coiling up the dark stained bars. Emerald and silver sheets accompanied it. “Like this one, for example.”

“There are mobiles over here. Owls. The Hogwarts Houses. Snitches and brooms.”

“Quidditch is a useless sport!”

“My hobbies are gushing blood, Tom. Your words hurt.”

“If my son wishes to get involved in the vapid sport when he’s old enough to fly then I suppose that I will allow him to, as long as his grades don’t suffer for it, but I will not tempt him with it from day one and poison his mind!”

“The owls, then?”

“The Houses are better.”

The shelves filled with toys presented a bigger problem than picking out the furniture had. He’d never had toys himself, had rarely seen others play with them, and had little idea what they were meant to be used for. Blocks with moving pictures and letters and Runes that changes colors. A toy Welsh Green which spat steam from its nostrils. An entire wall to wall display of push dolls; lions, unicorns, wolves, birds and every other animal imaginable. Tom took down a velvetine basilisk with glinting yellow eyes; it hissed at him and he smiled. Grabbing a phoenix as well, he headed back to Abraxas.

“A Phoenix?”

“Young children often strangle their toys while they sleep. I can imagine that it’s Dumbledore.”

“Well, they do say like father like son.” He said with a sigh. “If that’s everything from here we should head to Flourish and Blott’s for some children’s books.”

“Yes, that’s all from here.”

With their purchases shrunk and safely stowed in their pockets, the pair headed down the main drag towards the bookstore. Having never been in the ‘children’s section’ of the stone before Tom pulled the first book he found off of the shelf and flipped it open.

“’And Wee Willykins kissed and huggled the hoppity pot and promised always to help the dollies and never be an old grumpy-wumpkins again’? This sounds like brain rot.”

“Morgana, of course you pick up _Toadstool Tales_. It’s a poorly done ‘light’ version of a classic book you _have_ to read to him; every Pureblood child knows these stories so it’s important that he knows them too.” Abraxas handed him the other book and shoved _Toadstool Tales_ back onto the shelf with a snort of disgust.”

“ _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_?” He flipped the book open, thumbed through it and nearly jumped a mile when he was met with the cloaked figure of Death staring back at him from the illustration accompanying the Tale of the Three Brothers.

“You alright, Tom?”

“Fine. Perfectly fine.” He closed the book with a snap. “Any others?”

“Just a couple books on names. I’m assuming you haven’t given it any thought?”

“No, I haven’t. Not yet.”

“Are you planning on going the traditional Pure blood route? Choosing whatever name you want for his first and then having his middle and last name be Thomas Riddle?”

“’Tom’ isn’t derivative of anything and no. Why would I give my son my name when I hate it?”

“Voldemort Riddle then?”

“If there even a first name that could go with that without sounding ridiculous?”

“Might I suggest Abraxas Jr.?” The Malfoy Heir ducked the copy of _Grumble the Grubby Goat_ which Tom threw at him and fled behind another shelf. “I think it’s a marvelous name.”

“Idiot!”

Cackling, Abraxas headed towards the counter where the teller was watching them with a smile. Annoyed, Tom followed him out.


	7. Chapter 7

“As I hope to have impressed successfully upon all of you by graduation, all disciplines of magic are in some way connected. And all can be useful to you in the event you find yourself in a situation where there is the need to defend yourself…well, perhaps we can bar Divination from such consideration.”

_‘He’d been soundly sleeping curled beneath the duvet of his bed within the walls of Riddle Manor-rightfully his now that his wretched Muggle father was dead, not that he’d ever have considered willfully living there before the advent of his precious son-when the tapping of small unstockinged feet woke him.’_

“It seemed annoyingly simplistic even back in first year, at least for some of you I’m sure, to go about such things as Transfiguring a match into a needle or levitating a feather, but surely now-or at least shortly-each and every one of you will see the necessity of starting small. After all, one cannot go about something complex without first understanding the basics.”

_‘He rolled over and cracked open one eye to find emerald gazing back at him from beneath a mop of incorrigible black hair. His son-name omitted at this point in his fantasy, having not yet decided on one though he felt as if he might be getting close; H-led names seemed implacably attractive-was barely tall enough to see over the top of the mattress. He was two, he thought, or maybe three, and gripped the sheet with tiny hands as he bounced in place; a futile, if adorable, attempt to clamber into bed with him.’_

“Normally, this would be something only discussed in detail amongst the circles of those going into professions where magical combat would be necessary-namely Aurors-but with the march of the Dark Lord moving steadily closer I would feel remise not to mention such matters.”

‘ _A nightmare of some sort, perhaps? He was alarmingly prone to them. Tom reached over with one arm and hoisted the boy-small for his age and thin boned, like a bird-up onto the bed. His son wasted no time crawling to him and settling himself against his chest. Tucking his head beneath Tom’s head with a small sigh and relaxing under the sway of the lullaby that was his bearer’s steady heartbeat.’_

A sudden, sharp pain jerked him out of his fantasies; his knee hit the underside of his desk with an unflattering clatter and he wasn’t entirely able to bite back a gasp. Almost passed since his visit to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and the movements of his precious son had gone from a slightly uncomfortable flutter to full-out kicks; he now fully understood what Healer Sael had meant about enjoying the reprieve while it lasted. He was honestly surprised he wasn’t black and blue.

“Perhaps you could explain what my reasoning would be for bringing up such topics, despite them not being necessarily sanctioned as appropriate for general schooling by the Ministry since you seem so content to interrupt my class after spending the majority of my lecture staring out the window Mr. Riddle?”

A few nervous snickers rang out from the students of the other Houses. A number of his Knights, despite growing more than a bit reckless in the suspension of their usual activities, fired back with poisonous glares. Dumbledore was observing him expectantly from the front of the room. Thankfully, embarrassment and primary vexation won through as the primary emotions in response to the situation; hormones or not, bawling in the middle of Transfiguration would only be a detriment to his image.

 Tom arranged his face into a somewhat cowed smile and dipped his head as if in shame. “Forgive me, Professor, my long running illness has left me a bit out of sorts.” He said. “I would assume that the point you wish to make is that as most disciplines of magic are somehow interconnected, Charms and Transfiguration could be used in concert with Defense in the event which one would have to fight for their life. As could certain Potions and Apparition.”

“Very well Mr. Riddle, as it seems you were indeed paying attention, and given your condition, I won’t be deducing any points from Slytherin House for this offense. However, I won’t be awarding any for your answer either. Correct as it may have been.”

“Of course, Professor. I apologize again for interrupting.”

As Dumbledore returned to giving his lecture Tom glanced over at Abraxas, sitting beside him. The blonde sent him a questioning look and he nodded, wincing, before covertly massaging the sore area.

_Must you kick me so hard, my sweet little serpent? Where I’m glad that you are strong, and the occasional reminder you are still with me would not be remiss, I am already enduring quite a lot for you. A bit of mercy, please.”_

Much to his relief, his son settled a few moments later. They worked on Conjuring Canaries; Tom had to put considerably more effort into keeping his magic in check than he once would have, but other than that class passed as normal. He noted with no small amount of smugness that he was still the first in the class to manage the assigned task.

Dinner passed without fanfare and with some time to spare, Tom made his way up to the seventh floor and slipped into the room of requirement. The floors were paneled in dark stained cherry wood and the walls were painted a soft beige, the light overhead dimmed to a low, soft setting. Their purchase-accompanied by the additions of a rocking chair bookshelf and bed courtesy of the room, were arranged comfortably. Walking up to the edge of the crib he tapped the mobile with his wand, watching it begin to turn and tinkle a gentle tune, and picked up the plush Basilisk. Stroking it idly with his fingers with a soft smile on his face.

He couldn’t wait until the crib was finally occupied with his son. To be able to hold his baby. Read to him. Play with him. Teach him. Do everything that he wished his father would have done for him when he was a child. What would his first word be? What would his first incident of accidental magic be? When would it happen? Would he inherit the ability to speak to snakes?

“Careful, Tom. Your face will freeze like that if you smile for too long.” Without thinking, he flipped him off. Abraxas chuckled. “Well, your hands certainly seem to be hormonal today.”

“Shove it, Malfoy.” He was fully aware that his voice held no bite as he settled the toy snake back in its place in the crib. “Why?”

“Why?”

“I never asked before. About your motivations.”

The Malfoy Heir blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“Your want to be named Godfather.” He clarified, lightly gripping the side of the crib. “What were you seeking to gain, specifically, by worming your way into what could be considered the direct family of the Heir of Slytherin?”

“I’m not trying to gain anything.”

“Rubbish! You’re a member of Snake House, not to mention one of my Knights. The Heir to a pureblood family of considerable power and standing. You, like the rest of them, seem something from my bloodline surely.”

“Tom,” he sounded somewhat bemused, “if I can ask this without being Hexed into next year, what the devil did those Muggles do to you to make you like this? Or is it just your nature?”

“What, exactly, is it that you want?”

“Being referred to as a friend, rather than a minion acquaintance or schoolmate, would be nice.”

“I don’t have friends. I never have and I never will. I was a freak and a monster at that orphanage, the Devil himself in a human skin, and here I was nothing but the little orphaned ‘Mudblood’ of Slytherin; no one gave a bloody damn that I was actually a half blood until half of my blood turned out to be Salazar’s!”

“Generally, Tom,” Abraxas had the nerve to let out a very tired sigh, “is someone who cares about another person for who they are. Not what they can get them.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I care about you.” The brunet sent him a sideways glare. “Not like that, Merlin! I’m into woman. Not that you aren’t…well, let’s not make this anymore awkward than it already is.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t. Luckilly, I’m willing to wait until you move passed the ‘denial’ phase.” He answered Tom’s pointed glare with an innocent expression. “Have you decided on a name for him, yet?”

“Harry.” Tom looked nearly scandalized by his own outburst, as surprised as Abraxas looked, and continued “I wanted something with an H. I didn’t decide on anything until just now, but for some reason…it just feels right to name him that.”

“We should probably go with Harrison as his proper name and Harry as a nickname. It would be more fitting for the Pure Blood circles that he’ll surely end up mingling in that way.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Middle name?”

“Not Abraxas.” He quipped. “Beyond that, no idea yet.”

“If all else fails, you could always use Marvolo as well.”

“I suppose so, but that doesn’t seem right. And I’m not feeling a draw towards any particular letter this time. Maybe Alea.”

“Gamble?”

“That’s what he is, in many ways. A gamble.”

“I’m not even going to question that because I doubt you’d explain.”

Tom smirked. “No, I wouldn’t. Not that you would want to know. Or believe me.”

“You’re Lord Voldemort, soon to be ruler of magical Britain. Anything is possible with you around.”

He blamed his out of whack hormones for the fit of laughter that overwhelmed him at that point. Abraxas only smiled and watched him gasp for air, leaning heavily on the crib to keep himself upright. Perhaps having the Malfoy Heir around long turn wouldn’t be so bad, regardless of his real intentions.


	8. Chapter 8

Saturday had, quite some time ago, become his favorite day of the week. Why? No classes, no particular need to show up to the Great Hall for meals and only the rare Prefect’s round to worry about. This one in particular saw Tom once again hold up in the Room of Requirement, this time alone as Abraxas had again returned home to visit his parents, curled up on the bed with _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ open in his hands.

“’The three witches and knight set off down the hill together, arm in arm, and all four led long and happy lives, and none of them ever suspected that the fountain’s waters carried no enchantment at all.’” He closed the book with a slight frown, gently rubbing his swollen stomach as he propped himself further against the headboard of the other. “Rather pro Muggle, though not entirely distasteful given the reality of what keeping too much to such a small community as ours could cause. And I suppose it would be bad parenting to read you the surely heavily edited Pure-Blood edition when you’re still so young. That will have to wait until you’re of an age where it won’t cause nightmares.” Nightmares were precisely the reason he wouldn’t be reading _Toadstool Tales_ to his son either. Ever. No one needed to much saccharine imagery so far as he was concerned.

As much as he would have liked to remain in the Room of Requirement for the remainder of the day the only thing the room couldn’t provide was food and drink-a law of magic, sadly-and he’d need a glass of water if he was to continue reading the rest of the stories contained in _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to his son. A trip to the kitchens wouldn’t take over long, so Tom supposed that there was sadly nothing for it.

Reapplying his glamours with careful precision before leaving the room he set a course towards the portion of the dungeons where the entrance to the kitchens was hidden but barely made it down the first staircase before his vision was obscured by red-lined robes and blonde hair.

“Riddle, there you are! I’ve been looking all over the bloody school for you! Might I ask where you were on the Express if not in the Prefect’s car where you should have been as Head Boy?”

Tom blinked, recovered from his surprise quickly, and then raised an eyebrow. “Minerva,” he said coolly, “might I ask why I’m only being interrogated about this now? That was months ago.”

“I simply didn’t have the time or opportunity to bring it up prior to now. Your company is hardly pleasant, after all, unless one enjoys tormenting younger students and being ordered around like servants.” She thrust a slip of paper into his face. “I was sent to deliver this to you; you’re wanted in the Headmaster’s office. Immediately. I was not informed as to why, but there is a Healer waiting for you.”

Tom looked up from the note with a start, wide eyed. “A woman?”

“No, a man. Does that mean anything? Riddle!”

He ignored her, too busy rushing towards the Head Master’s office. What the bloody hell was going on? Why was a Healer he didn’t know here and why was he being called to the office? Abraxas had assured him his privacy would be upheld.

Dumbledore Dippet and a middle aged man in lime green robes which denoted his profession were all standing in the office when he arrived and all three wasted no time in turning to stare at him.

“Mr. Riddle, if you would please explain what prompted you to conceal your condition from the school? Healer Ralwyn has finished informing us of the fact that you were fully aware of the risks to both yourself and your son by continuing practical studies. Not to mention the fact that you’ve evidently been using glamors all this time.”

He ignored the Headmaster’s words, instead focusing the Healer In a poisonous glare. “Don’t you people take an oath of privacy of your patients?”

“The oath of privacy ceases to apply in situations where the life of the patient comes to be at risk, Mr. Riddle.” The man informed him calmly. “The fact that you are able to bear as a Halfblood is incredibly unusual and demanded further examination of Healer Sael’s findings and we made a discovery which was…most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Tom could feel his hackles starting to rise as the Healer rounded the desk towards him.

“How you came to have the ability to bear children is unclear but what is clear is that the occurrence wasn’t natural. Things are not as they should be and the likelihood that you’ll survive should you give birth is very low. To save your life, it’s been authorized to…”

“To what!?”

“Terminate the child. I’m terribly sorry, truly I am, but even with Healing magic-.”

“ _No!”_   The sound of his thundering heartbeat was suddenly all that he could hear as everything glass in the office exploded, scattering the floor with shards of glinting silver. He tried to bolt but slipped and fell, catching himself on his hands and knees. Glass bit into his skin but the pain didn’t register and, forgoing the door, he scrambled into one of the corners. Wild eyed. Gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles turned what and waving it around like a mad man. No. No. No! This was not happening. He would not allow it to. They wouldn’t take him; he wouldn’t let them!

“Mr. Riddle-.”

“ _Get away from me!”_ Green sparks scattered like small emeralds across the small emeralds and hissing like serpents. Fear and fury warred with each other in his constricting chest, ribs like iron bands that made breathing almost impossible. Eyes burning. Tears threatening the, refusing to be held back, spilling as he pulled his knees up protectively. Baring his teeth like a cornered animal.

Wisely, the Healer retreated, and the Headmaster stepped forwards instead attempting to appeal to logic that didn’t matter anymore; his fear of death utterly drowned out by his screaming instincts like a mantra in his mind. No. No. No! Losing his son would ruin him. The Healer’s concern was his life. Dippet’s excuse was his youth, but his real concern, surely, was how it would look to have another death occur within the school even if it was a natural cause this time. He was still a child, even if just barely shy of his majority at seventeen, and knew that he would need an ally. Someone who was older, more ‘worldly’ and thereby more ‘experienced’ with life in order to have any real say in what would happen in his near future.

It was in an act of nothing short of total desperation that he turned his eyes to the only person in the room who hadn’t spoken. The foremost person he’d wanted to hide the truth of his condition from in the first place.

“Please.” A cabinet erupting into livid orange flames, the box of stolen trophies rattling within it as evidence of his crimes. “He’s the only family I have.” A rabbit hung from the rafters, its white fur stained red with blood as it swung slightly in a nonexistent breeze. Myrtle dead on the floor beneath the eyes of the basilisk. Hagrid framed for what was truly his fault. “The only good thing I’ve ever done. Don’t take him from me.”

“I think that Mr. Riddle has made his choice, Armando. He is almost seventeen, after all, quite independent and aware of the true consequences of his actions beyond that of most his age.” He said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Not to mention how small our community is, and how precious our children are as a result.”

“The child would not advance our numbers, Albus, if Mr. Riddle were to die in the process of bearing him. Not to mention that it is our duty as Headmaster and Deputy Headmaster of this school to look after the wellbeing of our current students, one of which being Mr. Riddle.”

“Given the strength of his reaction to the mere suggestion I think it’s fair to say that we will be losing Mr. Riddle either way.”

“We can have him watched.”

“Until graduation, perhaps. A couple of months. The depression caused by losing a child would last far into the future, long passed the time where you or I could legally prevent Mr. Riddle from harming himself.”

“I-.”

“Need I also mention the small technicality that I am, at current, his magical guardian?”

“I…Merlin, Albus…very well.” Dippet huffed and turned his attention to the Healer. “It would seem that your services will not be required; you’re welcome to the Floo to return to St. Mungos.”

Tom hadn’t moved from his slouched position in the corner, gaze fixed straight ahead even as Dumbledore crossed the room towards him. He didn’t look up until he spoke.

“Why don’t you come with me to my office, Tom. I think some tea would do you good.” His voice no longer held the strained politeness which had been there since their first meeting and the infamous twinkle was gone. Tom didn’t know if he wanted to punch him of break down further.

It was with some difficulty that he managed to rise from the floor and, in silence, followed his least favorite Professor through the halls and into his office. Fawkes turned his head to look as they entered, ebony eyes glinting, and chirped softly.

With a flick of his wand a second chair was conjured across from his desk and a tray of tea was summoned from the kitchens. Tom curled up in it and resumed staring blankly at the wall.

“Are you perhaps aware, Mr. Riddle, that you’re dripping blood onto the floor?”

Tom looked down, seeming to realize for the first time that shards of glass were still embedded in his pals, and tonelessly muttered “Episky.”

“I would also have to point out that, now that the truth has come to light, it’s best you cease the constant use of glamors.”

There wasn’t really much point in sing them now anyway. Tom let them drop, curling tighter around himself and entirely ignoring the tea which the older wizard attempted to offer to him.

“Does Mr. Malfoy know?”

“Abraxas is the Godfather, nothing more.”

“Then who is the father?”

“A Muggle. Don’t ask me the bastard’s name; he didn’t exactly leave a business card behind when he was finished.” He paled slightly and looked at him with undisguised pity. It would have been humiliating before, but it didn’t matter now.

Just over a month to live.

“Mr. Riddle…it’s terrible to hear what you have gone through. To know that you still care so much for your son is admirable and incredibly adult of you; many in your position would not be able to look passed such a thing.

“It isn’t his fault. I brought what happened on myself.” Tom ignored the predictable response which was brought about by this statement. He didn’t know what he was talking about anyway; no doubt believed something ridiculous, like he blamed himself for being accosted.

“I must admit that perhaps I’ve judged you wrongly these passed years.”

“You haven’t and you and I both know that; you’ve been right all along. I’m evil.” Tom looked away, gripping his knees tighter. “What the bloody hell would I have done with a child? I’d have turned my own son into a monster.”

“You’re not evil, Tom.” The sage tone in which Dumbledore spoke was infuriating. “You may have done terrible things, things which I can guess but you don’t seem inclined to admit to in detail, but you are not evil. Evil, after all, is not capable of love.”

“Oh, spare me!”

“There is no greater act of love which a parent could perform than to give their own life for that of their child. You may scoff at the notion all that you wish to, Mr. Riddle, but you’ve already given yourself away.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Professor, I’d like to return to my dorms now.” Tom pushed himself out of the chairs. He’d preferred not to stay near the glittering neon man for any longer than he had to. “I’ve a lot to come to terms with and I’d like to do so privately if it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course, Mr. Riddle. I understand that this must be…a lot to take it. You are welcome to tea at any time.”

“Thank you, Professor.” He was relieved to be out of his office and charted a course towards the Slytherin common room. Thankfully it was empty; he had no desire to explain his condition to anyone else that day. Bad enough that he’d divulged what he had already, and to the one person he _hadn’t_ wanted aware.

Necessity trumps reason, he supposed. It hardly mattered what came out now that his life was all but forfeit, especially if it guaranteed the protection of his child. He felt confident enough in Abraxas’ ability to keep him well enough away from the man’s ridiculous ‘moral’ influences.

“ **Master.”** Tom jumped and looked up. The sheets of his bed shifted lightly as Nagini slithered out from underneath them, her amber eyes regarding him in concern. “ **I have kept away from you for a long time, but have returned now because I sensed your distress. What is wrong?”**

 **“Everything.”** He gently ran his fingers over her cool scales. “ **You were right. I wasn’t in the correct frame of mind when I returned from the summer, but that changed a few months ago after I visited St. Mungo’s. I’d been looking forward to finally having my child, but I’ve just learned that is’ not to be. In every likelihood, I’ll be dead within a few weeks.”**

Nagini reared back with a hiss. “ **Dead? Master, what do you mean? What is going to kill you? Tell me so that I can kill it first!”**

**“This isn’t something that you can protect me from. Though I wasn’t given a proper explanation I’d assume it’s the bleeding-or something similar-that will take me. My son will go into Abraxas’ care, as I named him Godfather, and will grow up a Malfoy. As my familiar I know that you would be free to return to the wild should you wish to once I have died-.”**

**“I will protect your hatchling, Master. I will not let him come to harm.”**

**“That’s all that I can ask of you.”** Her coils settled on the bed beside him and she rested her head on his shoulder. “ **I am sorry that I left. That I stayed away for so long.”**

**“There’s nothing for it now. I could have saved myself but my son’s life is more important. I’ve lived. He hasn’t and deserves to.”**

**“Your hatchling loses a great deal in never knowing you.”**

**“He’ll know me, in some way. Abraxas will tell him somethings, I’m sure. And you. And I’ll make an attempt to repair my diary-and will give a new one if I am unable-and will write to him though it will likely be some years before he’s old enough to understand. I’ll give it to someone who will be in the position to give it to him when that time comes.”** Her forked tongue flicked against his cheek. “ **I just wish…that maybe I’d done a few things differently. That I could leave him some manner of legacy to be proud of, instead of that of a school yard bully who thought he could actually change the world.”**

**“You’re acting strange, Master.”**

**“I suppose I am. It’s simply that I’ve only just realized…that I’ve lost.”** Nagini tilted her head questioningly but didn’t comment as Tom pulled the duvet up to his chin. “ **I’m going to take advantage of the absence of my Knights to rest. Please wake me when they return; it’s best to get the fallout over with as soon as possible.”**


	9. Chapter 9

“It’s amazing how 90% of Slytherin House would throw a dying man overboard. You know, Tom, you’re incredibly lucky to have a friend like my fantastic self. Which begs of the question of why you’re ignoring me?”

“I’m not ignoring you.”

“Prioritizing a diary over me, then.”

“Though I see no reason why I have to explain myself to you, Abraxas, this is meant for my son and I’ve only so much time left to finish it. It’s nearly complete now, what with my having stayed behind here over the holidays to work on it, but there’s still a few important things left to record.” He lifted the quill to prevent excess ink from dripping onto the pages. “Not to mention that I’d rather not waste our time discussing the likes of Avery and the others. Need I make it explicitly clear that I don’t want my son near him, the others or any spawn they might produce?”

“That much is fairly self-evident. Not to mention that, with the way their minds work, they’d probably try and hurt him to get back at you despite the fact that you’d already be dead at that point.”

Tom made a noncommittal noise and resumed writing.

“Who are you going to leave that with?”

“Minerva, most likely. I’d like to leave it to someone who will be his future teacher and I’ve no intention to have that person be Dumbledore. I relied on the man because I had to, but my feelings have not changed and I’m bloody aware he’d pry where he has no right to and would read it.”

“Can’t you write in the snake language? What was it called again? Parselscript?”

“I can’t be certain that he’ll have the gift and don’t want to risk him being unable to read my words. This is the closest I’ll get to being able to speak to him, outside of Necromancy.” He said. “I’m debating a blood lock but Minerva is prudent enough that I doubt such measures will be necessary.”

“You’ve already asked her?”

“No.”

“You sound certain she’ll agree. Surely you don’t have the magic to spare to cast the Imperius-.”

“I won’t need to; I can simply play on House traits. We both know how Gryffindors are. Noble. Charitable. Gullible. She dislikes me, just as does the rest of Lion House, but the last desperate request of a dying father who will never get to know his son will not be turned away.”

“Still a Slytherin, I see.”

“To the end. I am his Heir.”

“From what I know of you, Tom-of how much you feared death just last year after all you witnessed with the war-you’re taking the idea of dying remarkably well.”

Tom snapped the lid of the inkwell shut with a sigh and set the diary aside for the writing to dry. “I’m not taking it at all, Abraxas. I’m simply not acknowledging it. I’m forcing myself to focus on Harry rather than on my own circumstances and where this matter will ultimately lead me. To think of only the arrangements that I have to make.” He said. “Dictating, legally, that he would go to you. Formally naming him my Heir. Finishing this. Occlumancy helps compartmentalize, luckily. There’s not much left for me to fill my final weeks with, though; the only heirloom I have to leave him is the Gaunt Ring, with the locket vanished, and the Slytherin vaults were drained a long time ago so there’s no point in my writing up a will.”

Distressed by their topic of conversation Nagini hissed loudly from beside him.

“So I should expect a massive panic attack within the next few days?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Couldn’t you just resume attending classes, if you really need something to occupy yourself with?”

“There’s no point. I’m far beyond the theory that we’d work with in any of my classes, am barred from practicals due to my condition and won’t live to take my NEWTs. All going to class would do is exacerbate the problem as it would prevent me from doing something that would actually occupy my mind.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Abraxas toyed with the plush phoenix as he sat in the rocky chair in the Room of Requirement. “What was it about this room that drove you to all but nest here since we bought the baby things? Is it a need to be alone or is it because the cradle is here?”

“I don’t really know. I feel safe here, I suppose, and I would assume that Harry does too because he kicks me less.”

“Do you think he’ll be like you, Tom?”

“I think he’ll be strong.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“…” He shook his head, stroking Nagini’s scales. “I pray he isn’t. I hope that our only similarity, aside from shared blood and intelligence, is that our one parent that would have loved us died when we were born. I was tortured-physically and verbally-for years by the Muggles at that orphanage. I’m trusting you to make sure Harry doesn’t suffer anything like what I did.”

“Oh, come off it Tom you know I’m going to spoil him. That was how I was raised; it’s not as if I know any different.”

Tom couldn’t fully suppress a reluctant grin.

“Is there anything in particular that you want done? Something you believe he absolutely must be taught? Somewhere that you want him taken?”

“If he is a Parselmouth, like me, I want you to show him the Chamber. Take him to meet his inheritance. She’ll belong to him, once I’m gone.”

“The entrance?”

“First floor girl’s bathroom. There’s a reason that the sinks in there never worked.” He said. “As for the words to call the Basilisk, tell him to say ‘Speak to me, Slytherin greatest of the Hogwarts four’. She’ll come.”

“Anything else?”

“Make sure to keep his education balanced; teach him grey and let him choose.”

“And if the unthinkable happens?”

“You mean him being sorted into Gryffindor?” Abraxas nodded. “Sit back and watch the fireworks. You’re perfectly free to disown your own children if they end up anywhere but Snake House, but do that to Harrison and I will find some way to turn myself into an Inferi from beyond the grave and will come after you!”

“…Noted.”

“Good.”

“I’ll also be taking him to see you from time to time, to take care of the grave, so maybe hold off on the ‘Inferi’ thing until we’re not there will you?”

Abraxas grinned at him and Tom couldn’t help but roll his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

 

He’d finished it, finally. The last quill stroke had been made the night before and the ink had been left to dry in the intervening hours and now the diary filled with his one and only message to his son was ready to be locked away in a desk somewhere until Harry was old enough to understand.

He’d never been so honest before in his life, even back when he’d used the diary for its intended function prior to turning the thing into a Horcrux, but had spared no detail in his meticulous construction of the little book-part of why it had taken so long for him to finish the thing-wanting to leave behind the most accurate explanation he could as to why his surname would haunt him, likely for the rest of his life.

All that he could do now was hope that his son wouldn’t judge him too harshly for what he’d done and who’d been. For leaving behind a legacy which was anything but something to be viewed with pride.

He regretted that, now, more than anything. Wished he had more time. Wished that he could change it. But even a time turner would be of no help to him now.

Tom tightened his grip on the diary, fingers digging into the soft leather of the cover, and peered cautiously around the corner to ensure that the caretaker wasn’t lurking anywhere nearby. He doubted that he’d be punished-every member of the staff, it seemed, pitied his circumstances too much for that-but it would be a delay which he didn’t want to have to contend with at that particular point in time.

He was running out of time.

Abraxas had stepped into his positions as Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy when his condition had left him too exhausted to be able to continue doing his rounds affectively and the hospital wing’s matron had all but ordered him on bedrest for what little remained of his life. The Malfoy heir had offered to deliver the book to Minerva along with his request for how it should be handled but he’d turned him down.

He’d be damned if this wasn’t something he did himself.

Morgana, when had traipsing around the castle become so bloody exhausting? He couldn’t have been out of the Room of Requirement for more than ten minutes and had only gone down one floor!

Bloody Gryffindors; always around when you didn’t want them to be, yet gone with the wind when you really needed one.

Maybe it would have been wiser of him to send Nagini out to locate her before he’d headed out himself. Too late for that now, though.

 _Circe’s tits,_ he thought with a huff, leaning heavily against the corridor’s stone wall. _I feel like there’s a Cerberus sitting on my chest!_

So much for searching the entire castle if he had to. At this rate he wouldn’t make it down another floor before sunrise!

“Riddle? What the devil are you doing out of bed, let alone at this time of night! You are no longer a Prefect in case you haven’t forgotten!”

He didn’t know if he was more relieved or annoyed that it had been the exact person he was looking for who had stumbled on him. “I was looking for you, Minerva.” He managed between shallow gasps.

“And just why would you be looking for me?” Even now, when he was as harmless as a Muggle, she was incredibly wary of him. Months ago, in a time that he could barely remember now, that knowledge might have made him smile. “Because I have…a favor to ask of you. For my son. You still plan to teach after graduating here, do you not?”

“I do.” She was giving him the side-eye now. “But what does that matter?”

He held out the diary. “Give this to him. Please. When he comes to Hogwarts and is old enough to understand.” He wasn’t quite able to bring himself to meet her eyes. How had it come to this? Him, the Heir of Slytherin, reduced to depending on a Gryffindor. “I never got to know either of my parents. My son will at least have someone there to tell him about me but I wanted him to have something…from me.”

Her expression softened and she took the little book that he was still holding out in front of him. “What year should I give it to him?”

First? He wanted him to have it as soon as possible, but he also wanted to ensure that Harry would be able to fully comprehend and understand what had been left to him. Second? Still too soon. “Third. That should be…by then he should be able to understand.”

His expression must have revealed something of his thoughts because when he looked at her again he saw pity-at least she had to decency to try and hide it-but he was long passed mustering a sneer. Appearances and how others viewed him had stopped mattering long ago. How long did he have left? A week? A couple of days? A handful of hours?

“Thank you.” One of the few times that he’d said those words and actually meant them. “It’s late. I’ll just…head back to my room now.”

“You shouldn’t be walking around alone in your condition; the dungeons are rather far from-.”

“I haven’t been staying in the Slytherin dorms for a while now, Minerva. I’m only going up one floor. I’ll be fine on my own.”

He barely made it halfway down the corridor before he found himself sorely regretting those words. A sharp pain, similar to the kicks he’d long grown accustomed to but stronger, made him double over in alarm. The feeling of something wet and sticky dripping down his legs registered a moment later and his dark eyes widened.

It was too early, wasn’t it?

The Gryffindor Prefect was beside him, her expression a mixture of panic and something which seemed to say ‘you’ll be fine on your own, will you?’. He didn’t bother to focus on her words. He already knew what had happened.

“I need to get to the hospital wing. Now.”


	11. Chapter 11

After helping him to the Hospital Wing Minerva had rushed off to drag Abraxas away from his rounds, and to his surprise-though he barely registered her presence-returned herself. He was not overly surprised to see Poppy there despite the late hour-she was training to become a healer after all and practically lived in the Hospital Wing these days-or the matron-of course she would be there-and could only just understand half of what they prattled off at him through the haze of complete and utter _pain_ which all but left him blind. The muscles in his mid-section were clenching and relaxing over and over again, sending searing nettles all throughout his body.

He came to the conclusion very quickly that he’d rather be Crucioed. Repeatedly.

At some point amidst the confusion of the arrival of the Healers and the mad bustle which broke out soon afterwards Dumbledore managed to slip mostly unnoticed into the room. How had the bloody hell had the man heard? It was 2 am! Eight and 1/3 months was too soon wasn’t it? This was so embarrassing! _It hurt too damn much for him to really care!_

Abraxas had bitten almost clear through the bottom of his lip but did a good job keeping quiet as Tom put in his best effort at breaking his hand.

It hurt. It _hurt_! God, he wanted to die! Wanted to…no! Stop it! He wanted to live, pain aside, at least long enough to see his son.

It had been hours by now, hadn’t it? Four? Six? Eight? He tried to look and see if it was light out but between the small crowd surrounding him and his raised knees and swollen stomach he couldn’t see any of the windows.

He had been born with only a pair of stone cold matrons to watch and yet his death would be a circus. Marvelous. Despite his state he could still manage sarcasm?

“Alright, dear,” he couldn’t see her but recognized Healer Sael’s voice. “You need to start pushing now.”

It was hard to follow her orders. If contractions were painful then pushing was hell! But he forced himself to do so anyway and felt his baby shift and move. Slightly. Not much.

This would be…arduous.

His mother. He hadn’t thought much of her in recent years. Not since he, as a jaded child of only eight, had given up on ever having someone to care about him. On ever having a family. If she had survived to raise him, would he have turned out different? Turned out good? Or was he doomed to turn out Dark from the start? Would it have been her sitting beside him instead of Poppy, cooling his face with a damp cloth and brushing away the bangs which had plastered themselves to his brow? Would she have been disappointed by his choices?

He’d know soon enough. Would be seeing her soon enough.

“We can see the head, now. One more push. Come on, now.”

The smell of blood thickened the air along with the small cries of a newborn. His limbs suddenly felt very heavy. His body began growing cold at a startling speed and his vision blurred as he began to shake. Tom struggled to focus, to see clearly, as the tiny squirming bundle was gently rested on his chest.

The same black hair and green eyes that he’d envisioned. Face rounded and pink. He lifted his arm with great difficulty-why was it suddenly so hard to move?-and clumsily fumbled with the soft white swaddling until he found a small pudgy hand. Tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb. Tom’s strength gave out and he slipped from his son’s grasp. It felt like he was drowning in ice. Too cold to speak. Too cold. Too…too tired. So tired.

He kept his eyes on his son as his vision tunneled into black.

Harrison let out a small gurgle, reaching up towards where Tom’s head had fallen limp against the cot’s thin pillow. Patting his cheeks. Tugging gently on his blue-tinged lips.

“Will it damage him?” half of the cot was stained with blood; it had soaked the sheets and mattress and formed small puddles on the floor. The juxtaposition of scarlet against white was stark and jarring. “Having one of the first sounds he hears be his bearer’s heart beat stopping?”

“No. The little angel is too young now to understand what death is, and by the time he is old enough he won’t remember it.”

From the distress the tiny bundle was showing-letting out a string of urgent squeaks and burbles as his tiny roll-covered arms waved wildly around-Abraxas couldn’t help but doubt that the healer’s words were true.

“Maybe he’s hungry.” Minerva reached towards the child but the blonde quickly snatched him up, well aware that Tom would have killed him if he allowed anyone else to touch the one thing in his life that had mattered enough to die for.

The instant that he was parted from Tom’s chest Harrison erupted into tears, the formerly flailing arms reaching towards the still form on the bed instead. The green eyes displayed an intelligence which most grown men didn’t have; it was incredibly unnerving. “Maybe you’re right.” He said, gently gathering the boy to his chest in an effort to break his stare. It didn’t work. “Tom was…we didn’t purchase formula and I don’t believe the kitchens carry it.”

“We brought some along from St. Mungo’s knowing that it was unfortunately all but a certainty that Tom would not survive.” The bottle was glass, warmed by the formula inside.

Harrison displayed astounding coordination in grabbing it and viciously pushing it away; he never would have thought he’d fear for his life at the hands of a ten minute old baby, but the look that was currently plastered on his face made it obvious whose son it was that he was holding.

Harrison would do Tom proud.

“I have the feeling, Mr. Malfoy, that young Mr. Riddle will be more like his father in some regards than our world is prepared for. I’ll take this chance to wish you the luck you’ll doubtlessly need.”

“I think you’re right about that, Professor.” The mewls of protest and distress started up again as the infant’s view of Tom was obstructed by the sheet that the other Healer had pulled up over his face. “I think some tea will help settle our minds and that little Harrison might be better convinced to take his bottle somewhere other than-.”

“Merlin’s beard!”

“My word Alios, there is a child here! What could possibly drive you to start swearing!”

“He’s breathing, Sael!”

That was enough to stop the Mediwitch mid-lecture; she bustled over, heels clicking against the tile floor. “Breathing? Are you certain? He all but exsanguinated; just a moment ago our scan registered no heart beat!”

Tom had been delving rather deeply into Dark and even Black magic by that point, and had boasted once or twice in past years of being close to a method of achieving immortality. But from his resignation, from all the preparation he’d done, Abraxas had assumed that he hadn’t gotten any further than ‘close’. Or else that whatever he had tried hadn’t worked. Yet Abraxas could see that his lips were no longer blue, his cheeks had regained a more healthy color and his chest was…

“Sweet Circe!” And to think that not a moment ago Healer Sael had been yelling at her colleague for swearing in front of a child. “Mr.-Mr. Riddle, can you hear me?”

With a low groan Tom opened his eyes, wincing sharply against the light and trying to sit up only to be pushed back onto the bed.

“Your son is safe, you’ll have him back in a moment. We need to check you over first to make sure that you are in stable health.”

He seemed too dazed to answer, tired eyes falling on the bundle in Abraxas’ arms and not leaving as he was fussed over. Harrison stared back, arms outstretched and tiny hands clenching into repeated fists. The moment he was cleared the Malfoy Heir handed him his son, watching an uncharacteristically soft expression spread across his friend’s-he would refuse to consider them anything less despite the brunet’s refusal to admit as much-face in fascination.

The Healers had both left by floo and Minerva and Poppy had been herded off to bed by the matron. Dumbledore stood in the doorway just long enough to note “an interesting mark you have on your arm, Tom,” before walking out.

The brunet ignored him, no doubt too busy marveling over the fact that he was alive and had gotten what he wanted; the chance to raise his son. Descretely, Abraxas moved until he caught sight of the mark that their candy obsessed Transfiguration professor had mentioned.

A symbol resembling a stylized triangular eye stood out against the pale skin of the inside of his forearm, the lines as bold and black as a fresh brand.

They were alone, now. Harrison happily rested against Tom’s chest, enjoying his first meal.

“You were dead.”

“Is that a question?” he didn’t look up.”

“No.”

“I was.”

He said it like coming back to life was a typical Thursday. “What happened, Tom?”

“The _Tale of the Three Brothers_ is real. The Hallows exist. And so does Death. I met him on the first night of this past summer: he wasn’t happy about my attempts at cheating him.”

“Death? Is he responsible for-?”

“Yes. A punishment game. In all that I was going through the passing mention slipped my mind that we’d be meeting again in order to settle our…wager.” He cracked a reluctant smirk; the look of someone desperately trying not to find whatever they were remembering funny and failing miserably at doing so. “The entrance to the afterlife is King’s bloody Cross station! Did you know that? King’s Cross! And everything was white. Everything except for him.”

_Death was blackness and shadows, his looming figure stark against the bright white background surrounding them. It looked like all color had been leeched out of the world. As if everything were blanketed in snow. Yet it wasn’t cold._

_Resigned he pushed himself up from where he’d been lying on the ground and proceeded towards the being which would presumably take him on._

_Death tilted his head down to look at him and Tom found once again that there was nothing but featureless darkness beneath his cowl. “Shall it be you that I take, or Voldemort? Have you found something more important in the world, or do you still covet immortality?”_

_“Immortality?” he repeated dumbly. The idea of it was something that, quite suddenly and despite his incredible IQ, he couldn’t fathom. He didn’t want to live forever, he wanted his son. “I…no…what?”_

_Death ignored his confusion. “Do you admit defeat?”_

_“Admit-?”_

_“Do you desire immortality, or do you admit defeat? If there is something else you wish for you must first admit defeat in order to receive it but choose wisely, for if I take Voldemort and send you back you will never become a Dark Lord.”_

_Tom didn’t answer right away, even though he already knew what his answer would be. It was in his nature to think before acting. “I admit defeat.”_

_He could have sworn he saw a flash of grinning teeth from within that darkness. “My Master will be pleased that his gamble has paid off. The path you would have taken would have robbed him of everything in the future. Now, you’ll give him that and more and will receive all you ever truly wanted in return. A family.”_

_Spindly skeletal fingers closed around his forearm in a painful grip, a cold burn searing across his skin, and everything went black once more._

“Voldemort is dead, then? No more Knights of Walpurgis? No more plans to take over the government?”

“Don’t be daft, Malfoy! Voldemort is dead, yes, but I still intend to take the Ministry by storm. The legal way, this time, however, as I don’t much fancy a future in which my son will visit me in Azkaban!”

“It’s good to have you back, Tom.” Abraxas sounded both exasperated and relieved. “What would Wizarding Britain have ever done without you?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Am away from home at current so things may look a bit odd.  
> Thoughts will be denoted with ' '  
> Parsel tongue with -" "-  
> Will fix when I return home

Chapter 12

        Dark eyes slid slowly open to find a pair of glittering emeralds peering innocently back at him. Still floating in a warm haze of half sleep Tom shifted onto his side and nested deeper into the cot, burying his nose in the short black fuzz atop the infant's head which could only barely pass as hair and inhaling the sweet almost powder scent unique to babies. Under any normal circumstances he would have no doubt found the little thing utterly abhorrent as he'd never understood the general fascination which humanity at large seemed to have with babies (they were ugly things really; bottomless pits capable only of eating and crying and pooping not to mention that their proportions were an anatomical nightmare) but this was not just any baby this was his baby, HIS baby, and he was thusly nothing less than absolutely perfect in his eyes. His maternal (he was NOT a woman, thank you, but even with all of his incredible intelligence he didn't know what else to call it) instinct now firmly manifest inside him like a full grown basilisk coiled up beneath his heart wouldn't allow anything else to be the case.  
        "Good morning my precious little serpent. Did you sleep well?" Harry burbled and waved his little arms, blowing bubbles of drool on much the same way a crab would blow foam. It was endearing in an utterly disgusting sort of way and Tom quickly wiped his face with the edge of the sheet. "I didn't get the chance that tell you in lue of all the chaos of last night...this morning...either way, of exactly how glad I am to finally have you here."  
        Twice he'd almost lost him. Once to the healer who had claimed it to be for his own safety that he end the pregnancy. Once to his own choices. It'd been so close. All it would have taken was a handful of words and all of this would have been gone.  
        The basilisk hissed and Tom cooled down further, every muscle in his body suddenly tense and eyeing the door as of expecting something dangerous to come busting through at any moment.                           Seeming to sense his bearer's sudden change in mood Harry chirped. Deeming the area safe enough for the time being that he wouldn't have to bolt and find a new nest elsewhere he turned his attention back to him.  
         He wasn't quite sure how long it had been since he'd last fed his son before going to sleep but the slant of the sunlight pouring through the windows Tom judged the time to be somewhere around noon.  
        "You must be hungry by now my darling hatchling." He'd slipped into a high pitched tone with realizing it but there was no one around to hear it and it drew a laugh out of Harry so it didn't matter. Tom gently stopped his son from shoving his foot into his mouth(how he'd managed to wriggle free of his swaddling enough to do so he had no idea) and shifted his weight onto his arm, using the other to pull his loose robe that he'd been changed into while unconscious down over his shoulder. The little black haired creature did not require much encouragement to start in on his breakfast. One of his little hands curled around Tom's finger in a grip which was deceptively strong for his size.  
        It was a good sign that his appetite was healthy(hopefully it would stay that way as it would make future vegetable related trials and tribulations easier to handle) not that he'd expected Death to have allowed his master to come into the world with any such glaring complications  
        Thinking of Death even in passing made him think of what else the Reaper had said. That he'd never be a Dark Lord, now. That on the path he would have walked he'd have stolen everything from the tiny precious bundle in his arms. That he would have condemned him to a life much like his own and had hounded him until the day he'd died. Forcing him to become a murderer.  
        Not this time. Never again.  
-"I'll never be a good man, Harrison, because it simply isn't in my nature but for you I'll do my best to be a better man than what I have."- Harry didn't react.         He either didn't understand parsel tongue or was too concerned with his meal to really care much for words. -"I'll leave you something to be proud of this time."-  
        Anything to secure the brightest future possible for the pink, chubby thing in his arms. The helpless thing which was utterly dependent on him for everything.   The gravity of such a responsibility wasn't at all lost on him yet having that burden to bare filled him with a buoyant warmth which would once have had him fearing for his health and sanity.  
        He had a piece of the future which was his to shape and guard, which would love him for him and not what he could get them, and that was better than even complete dominion over the entire world.  
        Going soft or not, he was certainly beginning to wax poetic.  
        One Harry was finished with his meal Tom carefully rested him against his shoulder and patted his back to burb him, for once grateful to some of the information he'd managed to pick up from the orphanage. The doors of the hospital wing swung open with a low creak. Tom's gaze immediately snapped up just in time to see Dumbledore enter in all his absurdly glittering glory. The dark brunet felt his hackles rise, through force of habit if nothing else, and coiled down into a protective posture.  
        The infuriating man simply smiled, acting as if his only company didn't look prepared to pounce at the drop of a hat.  
        "Good morning Tom. Or perhaps I should say good afternoon?" He said congenially. All too congenially for the Slytherin's liking. "You feel well my boy?"  
        "Fine." He quipped in a blunt tone, fighting the urge to inform the man that he was by no means 'his boy'. "Is there something you need Professor?"  
        "I've only come to check on how you're doing, Tom. What with your miraculous recovery." He said. "Have you been seen by Madam Roman yet."  
        The attempt at a smile that he made resulted in a rictus facial spasm. He still (rightly) saw this man as a threat and did NOT want him near his son if he could help it. Unfortunately it would be a while yet before he graduated and Tom was no fool: the neon banana had a lot of influence and he would all but certainly need all the help that he could get fighting his way upstream of his current reputation. Best to keep all channels open if possible. "No Sir not yet. I'm not certain she's aware I'm awake. As such I have no idea how long I'm going to be kept here but hope it won't be too much longer. I've quite a bit of studying to catch up on if I'm to take my N.E.W.T.s with the rest of my year and would rather avoid raising my son in the hospital wing."  
        "You needn't worry about that Mr. Riddle though I'd prefer it that you remain under observation for at least tonight. You were dead, after all, and then came back though Merlin only knows how you managed it. And no," she cut him off before he could speak, " I needn't your silver tongued explinations either way. Albums, if you'd please?"  
        "Of course Priscilla. I'll speak with you in my office once you're released Tom."  
        "Yes, Professor." He said. "I think that's for the best."  
        The doors swung shut and both he and his son were left to the matron's nonexistent mercy.  
        In the end he had to take six foul tasting potions and was deemed capable of keeping down a simple meal. Tom could have cared less by this point, refusing the offered crib and curling up with his son again.  
        It was entirely unreasonable how satisfying simply holding him was. Harry was here. He was here and they were both fine and nothing would touch him without an unsurvivable encounter with an irate reformed Dark Lord.  
        Tom tested his weight before rising from the bed and rewrapping the swaddling to protect against the mid-February chill before crossing the room to one of the windows. Harry turned his head towards the light and clutched tiny hands in the direction of the grounds, burbling delightedly when his bearer nuzzled his cheek.  
        "You'll have the best life that I can possibly make for you. Will want for nothing. I'll give you the world." He'd graduate in just under three months, had no family but for a snake and the infant in his arms, and no property in his name but for a ring and a muggle manor in serious need of renovations. He'd be starting from rock bottom. Living hand to mouth. Nothing like the grandeur he'd dreamed of just a year before but that was fine. Even if he never made it out of poverty and had to live like that for the rest of his life as long as Harry was happy none of that mattered.  
        Somehow Tom would find a way to make it work for both of them.


	13. Chapter 13

A quiet night passed in the Hospital Wing, leading Tom to the merciful conclusion that Harry was not a baby prone to crying during the hours of darkness though whether he slept through the night was unclear. Either way he seemed well rested the next morning and busied himself with feeling Tom’s face as his bearer slowly woke up.

“Lips,” he supplied for his son’s benefit as the tiny hand roved over his features. “Nose.” Little fingers ran up the bridge of his nose, over his forehead and tugged. Tom jumped. “Hair! Darling, that hurts!”

Harry squealed and giggled and, rather than letting go, tugged harder. Tom had to take action to free himself and reached up to untangle his grip as gently as he could. Hopefully this wasn’t a sign that he was already developing a sadist streak.

“We’ll be released today, love. Likely after breakfast.” He said, gently stroking his cheek. “Then we’ll retire to our room. After a brief meeting with Dumbledore of course.” Harry frowned and blew a raspberry and it was all that Tom could do not to smile. What power this child had over him that he could make him melt like this he’d never understand, but he wasn’t at all unhappy for it. “I’m not pleased either, my dear, but it is necessary. You need do only what you do best, love. Can you do that for me?”

“Guh.” For a single syllable of nonsense it sounded incredibly reluctant.

“Thank you, darling.” Harry grabbed his thumb and shoved it into his mouth. Thankfully his teeth hadn’t quiet come in yet. “I think I can find you something better suited for a meal than my finger. You need milk, not meat; you’re not old enough yet.”

Not that he wanted him to eat his fingers even when he was old enough.

He’d never been more glad than he was in that moment that he didn’t have to return to Wool’s. That was a place which he never wanted Harry anywhere near; the worst sort of Muggles. The kind he needed to be shielded from and warned against. No. His son would be raised in close contact with the world to which he belonged. He’d enter school understanding Wizarding culture. He would not be called Mudblood as he himself had been for years.

Breakfast having been had and having at last been released from the hospital wing Tom wasted no time in leaving before the matron could think better of allowing him to escape. Harry was something like half asleep in his arms as he made his way through the halls, flinging poisonous glares at anyone who stared too long or strayed too close but thankfully on account to the time and the fact that it was Saturday there were very few people out. Many of the portraits crowded together to get a better look at his son, cooing over the bright eyed boy as they trailed his progress. Harry burbled happily back at them and Tom had to hide his smile in his hair.

He pulled his mask back into place and screwed it on tight as he came to the door to the office of his most hated Professor, entering once he’d been told to. Dumbledore was seated serenely behind his desk with tea for two already set.

“Good morning, my boy. And to you as well little one.” Involuntarily, Tom clutched his son closer. “Come, sit. Have some tea. Lemon drop?”

“No thank you, Professor.”

“For Harry?”

“My son is a bit too young to choke to death on Muggle candy at the moment, Sir.” His efforts towards mending bridges as need be were going terribly. Luckily for him the neon-bedazzled man didn’t seem to notice.

“I suppose that he is a bit young for sugar.”

Fawkes whistled from his perch. Tom lifted his cup and took a drink. Harry babbled softly and peered around the office, enchanted by the many whirring and flashing baubles and instruments but hid his face in the brunet’s neck when Dumbledore waved at him. Tom hid a smirk behind the rim of China.

“Would you be uncomfortable with me holding him a moment? Socialization is, I hear, a marvelous benefit to our children. Especially at such a young age.”

Allow Dumbledore to hold his son? _Dumbledore?_ And infect him with dangerously pro-Muggle sentiments, a horrendous sweet tooth and ungodly fashion sense? Then again he’d be here to keep a hawk’s eye on the man, and to pull his darling son away before things could get out of hand.

“Briefly.” He allowed, the reluctance in his tone almost painful. “But only if it doesn’t upset him. I was informed by Abraxas that he burst into tears the moment he was parted from me while I was…indisposed.”

Harry made a confused sound as he was passed delicately over the desk, swiveling his head around to look at his father in mild betrayal before giving the brightly dressed man his full attention. He busied himself with tugging on his nose and beard-he seemed to be obsessed with hair for the moment-then pulled his spectacles off and shoved them into his mouth.

“No, darling, that’s dirty.” Tom reached across the desk and removed the glasses from his son’s mouth, setting them down on top of the desk. The Transfiguration Professor didn’t seem to register that comment either, gently bouncing the little raven on his knee. “He’s only recently eaten, Sir. I wouldn’t-.”

Tom didn’t get the chance to finish that statement before Harry, his still sensitive stomach upset by the motion, spit up his breakfast onto the man. The brunet had to bite down on the laugh that wanted to bubble free, conjuring a handkerchief to wipe Harry’s mouth when he was handed back to him.

“ **Child, you’re a blessing.** ” The little raven wiggled his arms and legs inside the blanket he was wrapped in and flashed a toothless grin, almost as if he were fully aware of what he’d done and was quite proud of it.

Sadly, the Deputy Headmaster was able to siphon the vomit away quickly. “Given your agreement when we spoke last night, I take it there’s something you wish to talk about?”

Harry’s green eyes had settled on Fawkes and he was now holding out a staring contest with the bird.

“You always were the one who could see through my mask, Sir.” Tom rested his hand on Harry’s back, steadying the little boy in his arms. “Though even you don’t know all of what I’ve done, and I have no intention of informing you, I thought it best to…bury the hatchet in matters. I’ve lost enough of my life to hatred; I won’t have Harry making my mistakes. I’m going to be the father that mine never was. Going to give him the childhood that I never had. And make sure he never makes the mistakes that I have. I want nothing more than to raise my son, so if you could be bothered not to raise needless roadblocks in my path that would be appreciated.”

“And your political aspirations?”

As if a bankrupt half-blood mutt with no parents and views that didn’t exactly fit with the ‘Light’s’ side of matters wouldn’t get anywhere in that world. “Maybe when he’s older. Until then, let someone else remedy the woes of the world.”

His life would be simple. Unremarkable. So much wasted potential. But worth it, for Harry. He had responsibilities beyond himself now.

“I’m not your Head of House, Tom, as you and I both know, but as both the Deputy Headmaster and your former Magical Guardian I thought it might be best that I spoke to you on the matter of your NEWTs.” Dumbledore steered the conversation towards his own topic of concern. “Typically, when a student finds themselves in your position, they’re given three months leave from class as bonding time but in your case that time would conflict with your NEWTs. That, along with your absence from classes due to your anticipated death…”

“I think that my OWL results, as well as my academic record as a whole for that matter, ought to make it clear that I’m still fully capable of taking and passing my NEWTs alongside the rest of my year. As Abraxas is Harry’s Godfather and a Malfoy-his surname starting with M means he’ll conclude his tests before I begin mine-can take him during our practicals and during our theoreticals I can simply keep him with me provided an exception is made.”

“Are you certain, Tom? This test does, in many ways, decide your future.”

“I’m beyond my year in every subject, Sir. I could take my Masterys in almost every class today and pass most of them, likely with record breaking scores.”

“Very well.” Their conversation didn’t seem overly pleased with their topic of conversation; evidently bored, he began chewing on the emerald collar of Tom’s robes. “What career do you have in mind, now that your ambitions have changed?”

Career? He was hardly in a financial place to pick and choose as he pleased especially with a child dependent on him. “I’ll see what comes my way.”

Life would be hard, but he’d always make sure there was enough money to put food on the table and send Harry to Hogwarts when the time came with fitting robes and new supplies.

“If that’s the end of what you wanted to discuss with me, Professor, I should be getting back. Harry is looking a bit tired and it’s getting to be the time of day when I should probably be putting him down for a nap.”

“Of course, Tom. No need to deprive young Harry of sleep when if need be we can talk more on these matters at a later time. Pip pip!”

The most difficult part of kicking off his new direction in life was finished and, all things considered, had gone well. That being said, Tom still felt incredibly relieved to be out of the Transfiguration office and well way from the overly glistered man that inhabited it.


	14. Chapter 14

“Tom!” Abraxas whined. “I’m his Godfather. Are you ever going to let me hold him?”

The brunet, curled up on the bed in the Room of Requirement, gave him a very pointed side eye before he finally said “yes,” but when the Malfoy Heir took a too eager step forwards shattered his hopes with an added “eventually” spoken in an amused drawl.

“Eventually?” and just like that the blonde was back to whining; ignoring the fact that his antics were causing the smirk on his friend’s face to progressively grow wider. “Eventually? When, exactly, is this fabled ‘eventually’?”

“When our practicals arrive for our N.E.W.T.s; I’ll need someone to watch my precious serpent while I take mine.” Tom ran the back of his knuckles along his son’s pink cheek. Harrison seized the chance to stuff his bearer’s thumb into his mouth. “ ** _Oh, my dear, I’ll be in trouble once your teeth come in.”_**

Harrison squealed around his thumb and kicked his stubby legs. Meanwhile, Abraxas was still prattling on in the background about the injustice of not being allowed to hold his Godson and neither Riddle could really bring themselves to care.

Pulling up short, the Malfoy Heir gestured at the crib. “Have you even _put him_ in this bloody thing?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Once.” Tom said. “He couldn’t sleep through the night so I took him back to bed with me. I can only figure he likes to listen to my heartbeat.”

“Right.” He drawled, crossing his arms. “Harry was the one who couldn’t sleep.”

“He cries when I put him down.”

“You won’t be ‘putting him down’ I’ll be holding him!” Abraxas said.

“He doesn’t like it when other people hold him.” Tom adjusted his son in his arms, gently pushing away the tiny pudgy hand which pawed at the emerald lapels of his school robes. “No, darling. You’ve eaten already.”

“How would you know that your son doesn’t like it when other people hold him when you don’t _let_ other people hold him?”

“I let Dumbledore hold him.”

“Dumbledore! But you _hate_ Dumbledore!” Abraxas spluttered.

“He vomited on him, Abraxas. Would you like to run that risk?” Tom asked primly.

“You don’t seem at all concerned about ‘running that risk’.”

“I gave birth to him, died because of it and was promptly reanimated by the grim reaper himself. Siphoning vomit off my robes is the least of my concerns.”

The blonde had to admit the other Wizard had a fair point. “I’m good enough with children to know better than to bounce them around when they’ve recently eaten. And it isn’t like I’m going to run away with him; you’ll be five feet away the entire time.”

“Later.”

“It’s good to let him have contact with other people, Tom. Socialization is important.”

“Later, Abraxas.” Tom insisted. “There’s plenty of time to socialize him enough to prevent my sweet serpent from growing up to be about as hospitable as a Red Cap. He was only just born and I’ve waited too long to finally be able to hold my son to allow someone _else_ to have him.”

“And you’re going to be able to bring yourself to part with him come our N.E.W.T.s next week, are you?” Tom looked away. “Why not practice now.”

“No.”

“I’ll even sit down, look.” Abraxas dropped onto the side of the bed, making Harry squeal delightedly when the mattress bounced as a result. Tiny hands reached out towards him. “It looks like Harry doesn’t have any sort of problem with the prospect.”

The brunet huffed, still looking incredibly unhappy with the situation but handing the squirming bundle over. “Fine.” He said. “Five minutes.”

“Stingy.” The look he received was a very clear warning. Abraxas ignored it, though no further comment on the matter was made as he reached out to gently pick up the little raven and set him in his lap. “Hello, little one.” Harrison turned his head and fixed him with curious green eyes, burbling softly and reaching out with little fingers. “Yes, hello.” Those fingers wound in his silvery hair, then tugged. “Ack!”

“Oh, did I forget to mention,” Tom simpered, “that he likes hair?”

“No, you didn’t ‘forget to mention’ that he likes hair.” Gently disentangling those tiny fingers from their death grip on his hair and attempting to ignore the near psychotic laughter bubbling free of the cherubic raven, Abraxas leveled his friend in a mild glare. “You neglected to.”

The brunet hummed. “Perhaps.” He said. “Prove it.”

The Malfoy Heir huffed and transferred the baby out of reach of his hair. Bouncing him gently on his knee and prompting peals of laughter from the little boy, watching Tom trace his fingers along the Hallows symbol branded against the pale skin of his forearm.

“Do you think you’ll be seeing him again?”

Tom looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Him?”

“Death.”

The brunet’s eyes darkened. “I doubt it.” He said. “But I suppose it’s not impossible he might randomly decide to pop in at some point. Your times up.”

Abraxas sighed and rolled his eyes but passed the little raven back to him. Tom coiled subconsciously around the little bundle and the infant nuzzled the fabric of his robes.

“You’re going to start looking for a wife now, I’d assume?”

That side-eye was back again. “You sound jealous, Abraxas.”

“I had to scratch and claw to get to the point where you’d call me a friend and Harrison is my Godson. I don’t like the thought of sharing that hard earned position with some hussy tart.”

“Then it’s a good thing I haven’t any intention of marrying some ‘hussy tart’ for the sake of my son when I have enough trouble sharing him with you.” He said. “I have no need for a wife; the ‘female presence’ in his life will be Nagini.”

Abraxas’ eye roll was practically audible but Tom knew full well that he was pleased. “Single father, then?”

“I couldn’t possibly do anything better with help than I can on my own; no reason to bring someone else in on it when they’ll only increase the likelihood of buggering something up.”

“Abu-guh!” Harrison added, sounding quite serious.

“Quite right, darling.”

“You speak baby now, Tom?” Abraxas snickered.

“Fluently.” He said. “It’s a parent thing.”

“How is Nagini with him?” the Malfoy Heir asked. “You haven’t…left them alone together have you?”

“Briefly.” Tom raised an eyebrow. “Abraxas, you’re pale as a corpse.”

“You left your two day old son alone with an over six foot long venomous magical snake?”

“He’s the Heir of Slytherin, Malfoy. He needs to get used to snakes.” He said. “And they get along famously; she even snapped at me when I came back.”

“What next? Are you going to introduce him to the bleeding Basilisk for tea?”

“Once he’s old enough to be able to go down into the Chamber of Secrets without getting sick and properly understand the magnitude and majesty of the creature that he’s getting the privilege of seeing and speaking to.”

“So once you’re certain he can speak Parseltongue?”

“Of course.” Tom said. “And not alone until he’s much older.”

The blonde let out a sharp sigh. “At least you’re not entirely reckless.”

“I know what I’m doing, Abraxas.”

“Until you don’t.”

“I _will_ Hex you, Malfoy.”

“Thak!” The brunet only narrowly prevented his son from shoving his foot into his mouth.

Noticing where Tom’s gaze laid Abraxas tilted his head. “You don’t normally stare at the door. What are you thinking?”

“That I’m tired of keeping myself shut away in here, relying on the House Elves to send my meals.” He shifted the infant in his arms and rose to his feet. “It’s time I took back my place at my ancestor’s table.”


End file.
